The Widow Wager (6 page)

“That is?” he asked, doing the same.

She hesitated so long that he wondered if she’d lost track of what she was going to say. But just as he was about to press her, she looked him straight in the eye.

“I’ve heard you hate your brother.”

The words hit Crispin one at a time, like stab wounds, burrowing into his chest and stopping his heart. Was that what people thought? Said?

Was that what Rafe thought?

Of course, when he considered his behavior over the last year, why wouldn’t everyone believe exactly what Gemma had just asked? After all, no one understood the pain he had endured, the way his own loss had become entangled with Rafe’s loss of freedom.

“I don’t hate my brother,” he said softly.

“But—” she began.

“And what of you?” he interrupted. He could hear how hard his tone was now, but he couldn’t meter it sufficiently. “I don’t even have rumor and innuendo to go by when it comes to you, my lady.”

She shifted at the change of subject, that fetching blush returning to her cheeks. She took a few long breaths and looked at him. There was a hollowness to her expression that dug into his soul. He had seen that look on his own face in the mirror some days.

“I’m sure that will change, Mr. Flynn,” she whispered, her voice broken and bitter. “I’m certain that as news of our marriage gets out there will be floods of people who will rush to you, more than eager to fill your head with gossip. And if you break this marriage, they will tell you even more about how you dodged the greatest mistake of your life.”

He drew back at the angry words that fell from her lips. At the angrier expression on her face. Now he was utterly intrigued, for who could look at her loveliness and not desire it? Who couldn’t see her as a fine match, even if there was not money to be exchanged?

But she seemed insistent that she was not a good fit for him…for anyone.

“Why?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Wait and see, Crispin. They will tell my story with much more entertainment value than I could ever do.”

“Gemma,” he began.

She pushed to her feet and walked away to the sideboard. With her back to him, she said, “I think it is foolish for us to explore the past when our future will not be shared. After all, you claim you can break this marriage. Perhaps you will tell me now how you intend to do that.”

He hesitated. Should he press her on the past? He had an odd urge to do just that even though her words about them not sharing a future were very true.

Instead, he sighed. “I am going to be very honest with you, Gemma. After all, you know about the naked racing incident now. We must be friends, yes?”

She turned slightly, her eyes wide and her lips twitching. He wasn’t certain if she wanted to laugh or cry. Perhaps both.

“I appreciate honesty,” she said slowly.

He nodded. “I am not entirely certain I can fashion an exit from this mess. But I know people who could help us and we will go right now to see them. It is late enough we won’t be rousing them from sleep, I think.”

She shook her head. “Who?”

He shifted his weight. “Well, you inquired about my feelings regarding my brother. Perhaps you would like to see them in action. We’re going to see the Duke of Hartholm, Gemma. My brother, Raphael.”

Gemma had lived in the company of the titled and landed gentry most of her life. She was…
had
been…a countess, for heaven’s sake. And yet, as the carriage made its way through rambling streets toward the home of the Duke and Duchess of Hartholm, her heart pounded and her chest squeezed with anxiety. There were so many stories about the couple that she feared what she would find there.

“Do you know my brother?”

She jolted at the question and looked away from the window toward her companion. Crispin was slouched down in the carriage seat, as he had been the entire ride, his hand over his eyes.

“I thought you were asleep,” she said.

“I was praying for death, not sleep,” he said with a sigh as he straightened up and pulled himself together slightly. There was still a rakish dishevelment to him that was both frustrating and wildly attractive. He looked like a damned pirate. “Do you know him?”

She pursed her lips at his singular mindset. “I know
of
him. Everyone knows of him. But no, we never met.”

“I thought your husband was a…” He shook his head and she could see he was searching for the information in the foggy catalogue of his mind. “A…”

“An earl,” she provided for him with a frown. She tried not to think about Laurelcross when she didn’t have to do so. It was too painful. “But he wasn’t—he didn’t—we weren’t very active in Society. At any rate, he died close to the time your brother took over the dukedom, so we wouldn’t have met regardless.”

“Why?” Crispin straightened up even further now that he had a bone to nibble.

She stiffened. “Why did he die?” she squeaked out.

He shook his head. “Why weren’t you active in Society?”

Relief flooded her.
That
was a topic she could discuss. It wasn’t that she wanted to share her deep, personal issues with this man she didn’t know, but being petulant and withdrawing wasn’t going to help her.

“He was much older than I was,” she began. “And he didn’t care for that sort of thing. He was more interested in heirs.”

The moment she said the words, heard them in the air around her, she clapped a hand over her mouth. She understood perfectly the implications of those words, and if Crispin’s widening eyes were any indication, so did he. His gaze flitted over her and she saw desire light up in his stare.

A desire her body answered automatically, despite the tenuous situation they were in, despite the fact that she didn’t know this person. Despite everything.

She felt blood heating her cheeks, felt her hands shaking with both humiliation and need. Felt everything in her want to shift toward Crispin Flynn and see if the rumors she had not dared discuss with him at breakfast were true.

Was he really the best lover in London?

The words rang in her head even though she hadn’t spoken them out loud, and she turned her face. Thankfully, they were just pulling into the drive at the duke’s home, and the moment a footman came to open the door, she hurtled herself from the vehicle as if the hounds of hell were behind her.

In a way, she felt they were. Crispin Flynn was the embodiment of every sin she had ever committed. Perhaps he was her punishment.

The door to the house opened and a butler with a surprisingly tired appearance stepped out to greet them. His gaze passed her and fell on Crispin and his eyes widened.

“Mr. Crispin, you are…you are here!” he said.

Crispin grinned as he strode up the steps with every confidence and slapped the butler hard on the upper arm. “Latham, you old crow, you look well.”

The butler’s lips pursed, but Gemma thought his eyes also danced. It seemed there was a great amount of affection between Crispin and this household. “Thank you, sir.”

“And my brother is in residence, I hope?” Crispin asked, and there Gemma heard just a hint of desperation in his voice.

Latham’s eyes widened further. “Then you have not heard?”

“Heard?”

“Of course your brother is in residence, Mr. Flynn. He is upstairs at present with the duchess and…and the new baby.”

Crispin took a step back and staggered as he slipped down several steps before he righted himself. His face was suddenly pale and his hands flexed at his sides.

“The—the baby?” he repeated, his voice as raw as his expression. There was pain and joy in every line of his face and it took everything in Gemma not to step up beside him to offer him some form of comfort.

Latham’s expression softened slightly. “Yes, sir. The child was born just last night.”

Crispin was nodding, but it seemed to be a reflexive motion, as was the way he swallowed very hard before he spoke. “I would very much like to see my brother, if…if he will see me.”

“Come in,” Latham urged, stepping back to allow them entry. But as Gemma passed him, he sucked in a breath. “I’m so sorry, Miss. I am so distracted, I admit I didn’t notice you there.”

Crispin stopped in the foyer, turning toward them but not looking at either her or the butler. “It is I who should be sorry, Latham. I should have said something sooner. This is—this is—er—this is my—my wife?”

Now it was Latham’s turn to stagger a bit as his stare spun again to Gemma. She could read nothing on his expression, as was the way with the very best servants, but his voice shook slightly as he said, “Why don’t you retire to your usual sitting room, Mr. Flynn? I will fetch the duke immediately.”

Crispin nodded, motioning her toward a door down the long hall past the foyer. Her hands shook, but she said nothing until he had closed the door behind them. Immediately, he moved toward a line of liquor bottles on the sideboard across the room. She followed him toward them.

“Isn’t it too early for that?” she asked as his hand touched one.

He looked toward her and his frown deepened. “Likely so.”

“And I would think you’d want to have a clear head for this conversation,” she continued.

He flinched. “Actually, I’d like to be drunk for this conversation so I won’t remember it later.”

She tilted her head at his candor, then gently slipped the bottle from his hands and put it back in its place. “Why did you tell Latham that I was your wife?”

He turned away slightly, but she could see his face and pain was written plainly on each and every line. “I don’t know.”

The broken quality of his voice erased any upset she felt for her own part. Slowly, she reached out, her hand moving toward his arm. She saw him watching it, too, from the corner of her eye, both of them seemingly mesmerized by the touch about to come.

When it did, she jolted a little, moved as she had been at breakfast by their bodies touching in any way. His arm was very strong, and as her fingers closed over it, the muscle flexed.

“It’s all right,” she whispered, making her tone soothing just as she sometimes did when Mary had nightmares. “It will be all right.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t know Serafina had the baby,” he said, his voice almost imperceptibly soft.

“And now you do.”

He turned his face so she could no longer see the emotion written there. “Yes. And now I get to tell him—”

“What?” she asked when he cut himself off.

He shook his head and pulled away from her. She watched him walk across the room and was filled with a desire to help him. A desire she needed to turn off right away because their situation was far from settled and she had to be ready to fight for herself.

Crispin could still feel the warmth of Gemma’s fingers around his arm, as if she had branded or burned him with that touch. He stood at the fireplace, his back to her, trying to measure his breathing. He couldn’t be wrapped up in her. Not when he was about to face—

He hadn’t even finished the thought when the door behind him opened. He turned to watch his brother, Rafe, enter, followed by their friend Marcus Rivers, who had married their sister just a few months before.

Crispin was hit by so many feelings, seeing these men who he had been avoiding. The first feeling was joy, wild and unfettered. Rafe had always been his best friend, and despite the scandalous circumstances surrounding Marcus’s marriage to Annabelle, Crispin liked him too. He hadn’t been around people he loved and trusted for a very long time.

But the second and the more powerful reaction was shame. He had once again brought destruction and pain down around him. Just as he had so many times before. And he had to come here, like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs, and ask the great and glorious duke for help.

His brother stared at him for a brief second, then crossed the room. His arms were outstretched and to Crispin’s surprise Rafe enveloped him in a hard, long hug.

“You’re here,” he whispered, close to Crispin’s ear. “You came.”

As Rafe pulled back, a wide smile on his face, Crispin forced his own. “Congratulations.” He looked past his brother. “Hello, Rivers.”