Page 25 of Winter's Waltz
Chapter 5
Gen was not the kind who resorted to waterworks.
But standing in the ruins of her gaming hell’s kitchens by the light of day was prompting the troublesome prickle of unwanted emotion. Her eyes were watering. She blinked furiously, trying to send the damned tears back to the devil where they belonged.
But her vision had gone hazy, and the cursed things showed no sign of retreating.
“Do you know what I do whenever I lose?”
She turned at the familiar voice to find the masculine shape of Sundenbury sauntering toward her. She thought she had left him sleeping on the floor of her room with Arthur. Yet here he was, the soot scrubbed from his face to reveal achingly sharp cheekbones and that rigid jaw her fingers itched to caress.
Clearly, her weakness was getting the better of her. Lusting after the marquess as she stood in the charred remnants of all her aspirations.
She gritted her teeth, recalling his query. “I haven’t lost. This is an impediment to my goals. Nothing more.”
In truth, she was blustering. She had sunk everything she had into the success of this gaming hell. The cost of the repairs to her kitchens alone could be enough to render her gaming hell an impossibility without the aid of her brothers. And she had so desperately wanted to make this come to fruition on her own, using nothing but the funds she had amassed over the years through her earnings at The Devil’s Spawn.
“I was not suggesting this is a defeat.” He stopped before her, unfairly handsome. “I was comparing my failures and the way they left me feeling to the way you must be feeling now as you stand here surrounded by the carnage of your kitchens.”
Carnage. Aye, that was the word for it.
She was unamused. “I can guess what you do when you lose, Marquess. You bet again, and you lose again.”
He inclined his head. “That was the old Sundenbury. The new Sundenbury no longer gambles.”
“And birds do not have wings,” she grumbled, not believing him for a moment.
She knew his sort well. She had grown to womanhood surrounded by gentlemen just like him—fancy lords who had nothing better to do with their time than throw away their blunt on gaming, liquor, and whores.
He shrugged. “Believe what you wish. However, I will tell you my secret. Whenever anything happens to me that I do not like—a loss at the tables, for instance—I find something which makes me laugh.”
She glared at him. “Laugh?”
“Laughter is an excellent means of distracting one’s self.”
“So is singing, but I ain’t about to throw off a rum chaunt just now. Have a bloody look around you.”
His lips twitched.
She scowled. “Are you laughing at me, Dunderhead?”
He grinned. Dimples in full, splendid force. “It depends upon whether or not my admission will result in a knife wound or an empress-sized fist to the nose.”
He truly was the most ridiculous man. She wanted to kiss him. And that confounded Gen. So she reacted. Scooped up a handful of whatever was nearest—ashes, as it happened—and tossed it at his chest. His crisp, white shirt was covered in dirt.
That pleased her. “That is what it shall result in, Marquess. Leave me to my misery or I will dump the next bit over your head.”
His eyebrows raised. “Do you dare threaten me?”
Oh, she dared. The man was…meddlesome. Irritating. She liked him far more than she should and a hell of a lot more than she had anticipated she would. Which meant he was trouble.
She grabbed another fistful of ashes and tossed it toward him. “You are banished from the kitchens. Get out.”
But instead of heeding her, Sundenbury took up a handful of soot himself and tossed it at Gen. It landed on her waistcoat. Herfavoritewaistcoat.
He had performed an act of war.
She gathered up the ashes in two hands and flung them at him. He scooped together some more black, charred bits, and she turned, running for further ammunition. He chased after her. Ashes hit her back.
