Free Taking Liberties by Jackie Barbosa Page B

had already signed a betrothal contract? Nash clenched and unclenched his fists. Leticia deserved better.
    And better meant Nash.
    Just as he was on the verge of acting on his instinct to fight through the crowd and plant the duke a facer, the unmistakable figure of the Earl of Randley—unmistakable because he was second only to Brummel in fashion and elegance, from the height of his collar to the intricate folds of his cravat to the length of his tails—pushed through the throng, a fistful of notes in his hand. “I’ll see Hapsborough’s thousand and raise him a thousand that I will be the one to marry the lady in question by the end of Season.”
    A collective whoosh of surprise escaped the crowd, and Nash’s hands went lax. If Hapsborough’s wager was remarkable due to his customary insolvency, Randley’s was extraordinary for precisely the opposite reason—the earl was as fastidious about money as he was about his wardrobe, and he never spent a farthing unless he knew exactly what he was getting. If Randley was willing to gamble the outrageous sum of two thousand pounds, he must be supremely confident in the outcome.
    But why? How could they both be so certain of marrying the same woman? Especially when she’d rejected proposals from so many gentlemen before them. Each must have received some indication that the lady favored his suit, yet both could not be right.
    Which, he realized with a glimmer of triumph, could only mean that both might well be wrong.
    Despite this rather obvious conclusion, the gentlemen surrounding the book clamored to place their own wagers, some on the duke, others on the earl, and a few on both. A wry smile tugged the edges of Nash’s lips as it occurred to him that every one of them would lose their shirts if he was the one who succeeded in marrying her.
    And why the hell not? Randley’s wager had just leveled the playing field.
    “You have a horse in this race?” Fitzgerald asked mildly as he set his now-empty glass on the table behind him.
    Nash gave the man next to him an appraising glance and decided, for reasons he couldn’t entirely explain, to like him. “Yes, I do,” he admitted.
    Viscount Fitzgerald raised an eyebrow. “Really? Who?”
    Nash grinned. “Me.”

Chapter Two
    When Nash returned to his town house in Marylebone several hours later, fortified by several tumblers of whiskey and the unexpectedly engaging company of Lord Fitzgerald, he was bearded at the door by the family’s ancient butler. Toole, despite being well-versed in the etiquette of assisting one’s master in the disposition of his hat and coat upon his arrival, instead handed Nash a folded slip of parchment, addressed in a bold yet feminine script, and said without preamble, “An immediate response is required, my lord.”
    “Required?” That seemed rather impolitic.
    “Yes, my lord. The footman who delivered it refused to leave until he received your response.” Toole’s sharp gray eyes rolled in the direction of the kitchen, and his ever-present frown deepened.
    Nash chuckled. “Eating us out of house and home, is he?” Mrs. Hargreaves, the cook, considered it her sworn duty to fatten up anyone who crossed her threshold. Toole thought she was rather too diligent in the application of her mission, to the point of shortchanging the rest of the household. It was pointless to remind the butler that the Langston coffers could bear up under the assault of a few extra pasties, pies and puddings.
    Toole drew himself up to his full though not particularly imposing height and sniffed. “The fellow has the appetite of a regiment. One wonders if the Avingdons bother feeding their staff or simply send them off—”
    “The Avingdons?” Nash nearly crumpled the note in his haste to unfold it. The scent of roses tinged with cinnamon wafted from the parchment.
    Her scent. His reaction was swift and frank; his cock jerked, his balls grew heavy and he pictured Tish Blake laid out on a red silk