LITMIR.BIZ

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in his mind. His stomach tightened. Obviously he had been too long without a woman if he was reacting to a spinster like Emma Stockton.

      The drive had been as entertaining as he had expected when he chose to ignore Emma Stockton’s note ordering him to refrain from doing whatever her sister had requested. There was very little that gave him as much pleasure as provoking her. But the unsettling problem was that he responded to her physically as well as mentally.

      He was jaded. Nothing more. Upon longer exposure to the woman’s tiresome meddling, she would lose her allure.

      The carriage pulled up in front of George’s house and Charles shook his head to clear his thoughts. The last thing he wanted was to forget himself and mention the Misses Stockton. He and his sister, Juliet, had been down that path many a time and not to his good. Juliet was a strong woman who spoke her mind, and she didn’t like his dallying with Amy Stockton.

      He exited the vehicle and went inside, nodding at the family butler. ‘Good afternoon.’

      ‘Good afternoon, Master Charles.’

      ‘Is anyone at home?’

      ‘Lord and Lady Hawthorne are in the salon with Master Robert. Lady and Sir Glenfinning are with them.’

      Charles considered visiting his siblings, but decided against it. He would send a note of thanks to his brother instead of doing it in person. He was in no mood to watch Juliet with her new husband, a liaison he had been against. Adam Glenfinning reminded him too much of himself to make a good husband.

      ‘Please have my horse sent ’round.’

      The butler nodded. ‘Will you be in the saloon?’

      ‘No, I will wait out front.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      Charles watched the old retainer motion to a nearby footman, who was sent to the mews. Not many people could afford to house their horseflesh in the city. George could.

      Charles quickly stepped outside. Clouds bunched up overhead and a breeze moved the tree branches. He sniffed, smelling moisture in the air. It would likely start raining before he got home.

      A groom leading Charles’s horse came around the corner. Charles tossed him a coin and mounted the large bay gelding. If they hurried, they would beat the worst of the weather.

      The rain started just as he turned the corner of the street where his house was situated. He settled the bay before running to the back door and into the kitchen.

      The aroma of roast beef and potatoes hit him like a warm blanket. Alphonse, the French chef he employed, stood by the spit, supervising the basting of a large piece of meat. He was a tall man with a rotund middle that spoke of good eating. Grey hair stuck out from under the white hat he wore, giving him a wild look he did not deserve, and his bushy grey mustache was the envy of every young boy who worked for him.

      The chef turned. ‘Monsieur.’

      Charles grinned. ‘That smells like heaven, Alphonse.’

      The Frenchman nodded his head regally, knowing the compliment was only his due.

      A small black-and-white whirlwind sped across the slate floor, coming to a sliding halt at Charles’s feet. Bright brown eyes and a black button nose peered out from a mop of hair while a long pink tongue lolled nearly to the ground. Soft barking sounds told Charles he was loved.

      Squatting down, Charles ruffled the dog’s long ears. ‘How have you been, Adam?’ The mutt of disreputable breeding looked up at him. ‘Very well, I take it.’ Charles glanced at Alphonse. ‘Has Adam been impertinent?’ Charles knew the answer.

      ‘But of course. He demands the best slices.’

      ‘Just like his namesake,’ Charles muttered, thinking of his sister Juliet’s new husband.

      He loved this dog that had been a stray, even though he had named him after his unwelcome brother-in-law, who was also of dubious lineage. It had been one of his more subtle rebukes to his sister during her affair with Adam Glenfinning. As usual, it had done no good. Juliet had gone her own way.

      For a moment the picture of Emma Stockton as she had looked on her porch not more than an hour ago flooded his mind. Her hair had spiralled from beneath the brim of her unfashionable straw hat. Her grey eyes had been challenging yet vulnerable, a trait he was beginning to find caught him off guard more than he cared. Even the freckles marching across her short nose in no pattern or order drew his admiration.

      He shook his head to get rid of the portrait. He was not the sort of man to dwell overly long on a woman, particularly one who fit none of his criteria for beauty. She was too thin and too tall, along with everything else about her that irritated him.

      ‘Woof!’ Adam’s wet tongue on Charles’s hand came immediately after the demand for attention.

      Charles stood. ‘You are a demanding scoundrel.’ The dog seemed to smile as though he knew there was no rebuke. ‘I am going to my office. Alphonse, please bring me something to eat.’

      ‘Yes, monsieur.’ There was a pause. ‘And what about that canine monster you spoil so shamelessly?’

      ‘He will need sustenance as well.’

      ‘Humph!’

      Charles smiled as he left the kitchen. Alphonse might fuss and complain, but more than once Charles had caught the Frenchman accidentally dropping a piece of meat on the floor.

      Adam trotted close at Charles’s heels, his sniffing getting louder as they neared the office. The room was near the kitchen so the tantalising smells made Charles realise he was as hungry as Adam. They would eat while he balanced his books, a duty that had started as tedious and which he now found satisfying.

      It was nearly midnight that evening when Charles looked around and realised he had made a mistake. He had allowed his cronies to talk him into coming to Crockford’s gambling hell.

      It was his first time in such an establishment in nearly three years.

      Candles were everywhere, lighting a scene of licentious pleasure. Men lounged in chairs, bottles of liqueur beside them. A few demireps clung to the arms of their protectors. Several green-baize-covered tables were crowded by gamblers.

      A man sat at a faro table with a visor over his eyes and his coat turned inside out, hoping for luck—or, perhaps, having luck. Charles knew all too well what the man was feeling: the thrill of waiting for that winning hand; the need to play again and again no matter what happened. It was like taking another sip of alcohol. The need intensified rather than diminished.

      The urge to join a table was nearly overwhelming. All his hard-earned abstinence seemed like nothing. He should never have come.

      His hands broke out in a sweat. Moisture beaded his brow.

      He needed to leave.

      He managed to smile at the man nearest him. ‘I have decided this place is a bore,’ Charles drawled, glad the need didn’t show in his voice. He sounded as bored as he claimed to be.

      The other man raised one brown eyebrow. ‘As you wish, Charles. I will stay awhile. Crockford’s is known for its high stakes and I feel lucky.’

      Charles smiled again. ‘Luck is a fickle lady.’

      The man shrugged. ‘As is any woman.’

      ‘So be it.’

      Charles took one last look around the crowded room, knowing as he did so that he tempted himself. But he also knew he was strong enough to resist. He had learned the hard way what ruin this vice could bring.

      He turned away and sauntered toward the door. Several men watched him, a knowing look in their gazes. His downfall was not ton gossip, but nor was it secret. He nodded to acquaintances, determined that no one would know how hard this was for him.

      A flurry of activity caught his eye just as he neared the

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