"Might I get you some champagne?" Mr. Jones asked from her shoulder. "Please."
Marsh gave a low laugh. "Careful, gentlemen. The Dowager Lady Denmore is a fearsome player, and she only gets bolder as the night goes on." The other men chuckled and accepted her demure smile at face value. Fools.
They thought Marsh was simply humoring her, and they also assumed she did not understand the less savory interpretation of his words. The man was implying that he knew something about her skills at night play, as if she would deign to let his chapped lips touch her skin. Oh, yes, she'd enjoy taking his coin.
Mr. Jones brought her the champagne, the cards were dealt and Emma placed her first bet. The game was begun.
One thousand pounds. A thousand.
One thousand pounds lay on the table in a pile of gold and notes, enough to support a laborer's family for half a lifetime or more. And Emma was about to win it. Probably.
Except that she had thrown her last quid in on the previous bet, and Marsh knew it.
Emma broke off from her worrying to look around at their audience. She and Marsh were the last ones left in this hand, and the other players had spread the word. The table was surrounded by gentlemen. The atmosphere had become too hot and fogged with smoke for the other ladies. The real ones.
Sweat soaked through Emma's low-quality gloves, darkening the stains the coins had already left.
You can't back down now, she told herself. You have four hundred pounds in that pile. Not that she wanted to call off. She had a good hand, a win was almost guaranteed. Almost.
"You have me at a disadvantage," she finally murmured.
Marsh tried to appear sympathetic. "Surely you have property? Something that could be used as collateral. I'd be happy to offer a loan."
"I do not."
"I see." His green eyes glinted like moss beneath water. He leaned a little closer, and Emma laid her cards facedown on the table.
His eyes fell to her low neckline. "Are you quite certain you have nothing to offer?"
"Quite. Unless you would accept my word."
"The word of a woman? An unnecessary risk as, in fact, you have something of great value to wager. Something I prize very highly."
"And that is?" She didn't bother leaning forward to make his task easier. She knew exactly what he'd propose, and if he wasn't willing to make his offer in front of others, then the coward could keep his thoughts to himself. He was about to ruin her reputation, and he could damn well ruin his own as well. The sweet scent of port wafted over her as he breathed.
"I believe you know what I mean, Lady Denmore."
"I'm sure I do not."
He glanced up at the men closest to them, but his eyes darted quickly back to the tops of her breasts. "A night in your bed," he finally whispered.
Despite that she'd been expecting it, Emma still felt her body jerk with the shock of it. That wave of tension seemed to continue past her to the
observers at her back. There was a small bubble of silence around them all.
Emma raised her eyebrows. "You think my virtue is worth only four hundred pounds, Lord Marsh? I'm not sure which is more insulting—the offer itself or the measly amount attached to it."
The murmurs around them grew louder.
Her opponent looked into her eyes and smiled. He could see that she was insulted but not exactly outraged. "Fine. Retrieve your previous bets from the pile. That would raise your worth to . . . what? Seven hundred? Eight hundred pounds?"
Emma simply stared at him. If she did this, her name would be ruined forever, but her name would soon be ruined at any rate. And if she did this, and won, she could leave London at dawn. All her worldly possessions were packed in trunks and crates, and not very many of them at that. She would be done. She'd have more money than she needed, and she would be free.
And if she did this and lost. . . then she would leave in the morning anyway, not quite rich enough, because she'd be damned if she'd honor a bet as dishonorable as this one.
Emma clasped her hands tight together and squeezed against the wave of dull pain that roared through her body. You are a liar and a cheat. One more time won't make any difference.
She didn't know why the thought of walking away from a dishonorable debt caused her stomach to knot, but perhaps she would be well served to follow through even on a loss. A night in Marsh's chambers would cool her fiery blood for good. She would be cured.