Never Romance a Rake Read Online Free PDF Page A

cesspool.
    In keeping with this philosophy, he had stumbled across Valigny—he’d been too sotted to recall precisely where. But the comte was the sort of man whom one would ordinarily meet only in a Soho gaming hell, for Valigny did not belong to any of London’s finer clubs. Or any of the lesser ones, come to that. If Rothewell was scarcely known within the ton , Valigny was beyond knowing. There had been some long-ago scandal—a ruined countess and a brace of pistols afterward, or so Christine Armstrong had once whispered. Rothewell could have cared less.
    â€œAnother, my lord?” The comte edged one card off the pack with his thumb, his foppish lace cuff falling forward to cover half his hand. Rothewell inclined his head. Valigny sent the card sailing across the polished tabletop.
    Somewhere in the depths of the house, a clock struck one. The game picked up, the play growing ever more reckless. Mr. Calvert, the most decent amongst them, was soon on the verge of insolvency—virtue rewarded, Rothewell thought cynically. Valigny drew a natural twenty-one twice in a row, once with his black queen, then proceeded to throw it all away again.
    One of his footmen brought in more brandy and another box of the dark, bitter cheroots which the comte favored. Rothewell lit one. A second servant carried in a platter of sandwiches. Calvert got up to piss—or perhaps puke—into the chamber pot kept tucked in the door of the sideboard. Everything was conveniently to hand. God forbid anything should delay Valigny’s play.
    Lord Enders was a vicious player if ever one lived. He knew just how to taunt the comte, and pressed him hard. Rothewell was soon down six thousand pounds—a pittance compared to Valigny and Calvert. But he was still sober enough to find it bloody annoying. He motioned for one of the footmen to fetch the brandy.
    The next hand soon dwindled to Rothewell and Valigny, who was betting as if his hand held perfection itself. Rothewell tipped up the corner of his card. The two of hearts and the king of diamonds down. The four of clubs up. Perhaps he had overstayed his luck.
    â€œYou are undecided, mon ami ?” Valigny teased. “Come, be bold! It is only money.”
    â€œSpoken like a man who has never had to earn his own keep,” said Rothewell grimly. He tossed off half his brandy, wondering if perhaps he should teach Valigny a lesson.
    â€œPerhaps Rothewell’s pockets are not as deep as rumor suggests?” said Enders in a tone which might—or might not—have been facetious.
    The comte smiled at Rothewell. “Perhaps you should preserve your cash, my lord?” he remarked. “Indeed, if you are willing, we might play for something a little more interesting than money.”
    Rothewell’s hackles went up. “I doubt it,” he answered. “What did you have in mind?”
    The comte lifted one shoulder, a study in nonchalance. “Perhaps just an evening of companionship?”
    â€œYou’re not my type, Valigny,” he said, pushing a pile of banknotes toward the center of the table.
    â€œOh, you misunderstand, mon ami .” Valigny’s fingertips stilled Rothewell’s hand, his elaborate white lace stark against Rothewell’s still-bronzed skin. “Keep your money, and turn your card. If you lose, I ask only one simple thing.”
    Rothewell lifted the comte’s hand away. “And what would that be?”
    The comte cocked one eyebrow. “Just a very small favor, I assure you.”
    â€œSpeak, Valigny. You delay the game.”
    â€œI wish for one evening—just one—with the delectable Mrs. Ambrose.”
    Rothewell was annoyed but not surprised. “You mistake my arrangement with the lady,” he said darkly. “Mrs. Ambrose is not in my keeping.”
    â€œNon?” The comte looked genuinely confused.
    â€œNo.” Rothewell left his money on the table. “She may