"Now, Madeline, I realize you've only just arrived home from your tour abroad, and you deserve to rest, but I'm afraid that's not possible."

Madeline de Lacy, the Marchioness of Sheridan, the future duchess of Magnus, bit into the first good English beef she'd had in almost four years, chewed, swallowed and smiled beatifically across the sunny breakfast table at the bluff, red-cheeked bulldog of an Englishman. "Why is that, Papa?"

"I wagered you in a game of piquet and I lost."

She stared. Placing her knife and fork carefully beside her plate, she glanced at the dumbfounded footman, frozen in place as he bent to pour Magnus his morning coffee. "That will do, Heaton. Place the carafe on the sideboard. We'll call you if we need you." When Heaton had left, she gazed at her father and repeated -- for she wanted no misunderstanding -- "You wagered me in a game of chance and lost."

He continued eating steadily, silverware clinking and flashing. "No use trying to soften the blow, I say. Not with you, m' dear. Sturdy girl. Sensible girl. Always said so. Glad of it."

Drawing on that famed sensibility, she said, "Perhaps you could give me the details of this extraordinary bet."

"Had the bad luck to play not knowing he had gained a pique, which reduced me to -- "

Madeline took a fortifying breath. "No, Papa. I mean -- why would you put me in a game as ante?"

"Well, he suggested it."

"He being ... ?"

"Mr. Knight."

"And you agreed because ... ?"

"I'd just lost our fortune and all our estates. You were the only thing left."

Amazing how rational he made his actions sound. "So in a run of bad luck, you wagered everything we have -- and your only child?"

"Yes. At the time, it seemed a wise move."

Her brows rose. After the death of her mother seventeen years ago, when Madeline was five, her life had changed from that of a sheltered daughter to one of a girl dealing with the frequent disasters orchestrated by her beloved papa. By the time she was twelve, she knew how to direct a household, to plan a party, to deal with every kind of social disaster.

She was not prepared for this. Yet her heartbeat remained calm, her brow unwrinkled, her hands relaxed in her lap. She'd faced catastrophes of Olympian proportions before -- almost all the result of her father's careless disregard. Her composure would not be compromised now. "How so?"

"At least if he won you, you'd be assured of having our estates under your control, or at least the control of your husband." Magnus chewed thoughtfully. "It's almost the same as offering the estates as your dowry."

"Except if the estates had been offered as a dowry, I would have the advantage of knowing my husband and agreeing to the match." It seemed a point her father should concede, although she had little hope of that.

"There is that, but really, what difference would it make if you know the chap? You were already engaged once. You loved him. And that proved a disaster! What was his name? Brown-haired fellow with those damned disturbing eyes." Gazing up at the gilded, cherub-decorated ceiling, Magnus stroked his chin. "He was a hundred times more suitable than this Mr. Knight, but you jilted him. Rendered London speechless for at least" -- he chuckled -- "eight seconds. Until then, didn't know you could lose your temper. What was his name?"

A crack appeared in her tranquillity; her hands curled into fists. "Gabriel Ansell, the earl of Campion."

"That's right. B' God, I'll never forget. Magnificent in your wrath! Reminded me of your mother on a rampage."

Madeline didn't want to hear this. She didn't like to be reminded of her rage, or her loss of control, or that night and what followed. Afterward, for the first time in her life, she'd tossed decorum aside. She'd gone abroad to forget, and hadn't come back until she'd achieved forgetfulness. She never thought of Gabriel anymore. She scarcely remembered his name.

"Your mother was just like you. Always level-headed except when she flew into the boughs, then the oceans quailed." Turning toward the closed door, Magnus shouted, "More kippers!"

Picking up the bell at her elbow, Madeline rang it. The butler answered. Heaton had undoubtedly raced to the kitchen to share the extraordinary news with the household. She addressed Uppington in a composed manner. "His Grace would like more kippers." Anything to fill his mouth and stop him from talking about Gabriel. About Lord Campion.

Uppington bowed. In his rush to handle yet another of Magnus's "situations," he had buttoned his tailed jacket askew. "Aye, my lady." He refilled their plates.

Madeline bent her attention to her meal. A less formidable woman would have had her appetite destroyed by Magnus, but if Madeline allowed her father to destroy her appetite every time he scrambled their fortunes, she would be a wraith. She saw no wisdom in that.

"Will there be anything else, my lady?" Uppington asked.

"Not ... yet." Although, she reflected, perhaps she should ask for a cricket bat or any blunt object with which to beat sense into her parent. Actually, it was far too late. She knew that ... or she might have tried it. She was accounted to have a good swing. "Papa, did you lose the queen's tiara?"

"No! Not mine to lose." Magnus actually looked alarmed. "It belongs to you, who will be a duchess in her own right. Your mother wore it in her wedding portrait. Elizabeth herself would come back and haunt me if I wagered the tiara."

The queen's tiara had been given to one of Madeline's ancestors, a lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth the First, for saving Elizabeth's life. Solid gold and encrusted with jewels, the tiara was worth a fortune in cash and sentiment, and the queen decreed that, regardless of their gender, the eldest child of the family would inherit the title. Thus, in the last two hundred and twenty-two years, there had been dukes of Magnus, of course. But there had also been three duchesses of Magnus -- girls born first in the family and who were thus duchesses in their own right.

She couldn't help it. She had to ask. "Do you swear it's in the safe?"

He huffed. "I swear it's in the safe, and the dukes -- and duchesses -- of Magnus always keep their word."

She hadn't.

"Don't know how I got along without you while you were gone, my dear." Magnus provided a brief pat on her arm. "What shall we do today? Good day for hunting. Or perhaps you'd like to ride into the village and visit your old governess, Mrs. Watting."

"Watling," Madeline corrected. "I'd like to hear more about this wager."

Sincerely puzzled, he asked, "What else is there to know?"

"Perhaps the name of my new ... husband? Or am I to be a mistress?"

"Mistress?" Magnus harrumphed indignantly. "Good God, daughter, do you think me totally without prudence and sensibility?"

Madeline refrained from answering that.

"Of course you're not to be his mistress! Chap is to marry you, or nothing!"

"Such a relief." She marveled at her father's equanimity in the face of what was economic and social disaster. "Do I know him?"

"No. He's an American, or at least he hailed from the Colonies."

"I believe they've achieved their independence," Madeline said dryly.

Magnus dismissed that fact with an airy wave. "It'll never last. No, Knight's family originated here, and he arrived in London last year. Been making a name for himself in the clubs. Not popular, but I had to play him. Couldn't resist."

And that was the problem. Magnus couldn't resist any kind of gaming challenge.

Magnus frowned. "He has the devil's own luck with the cards." He said nothing more, as if that settled every curiosity she might have.

If one were unacquainted with Magnus, one might have thought him a monster of parental disinterest. Madeline knew better. He loved her as best his shallow personality could love, but he lacked both an attention span and a sense of responsibility. Fortuitously, Madeline had always been a strong-willed female of unusual prudence. "Is he old, young, a professional gambler, a merchant?"

"Well. Not worthy of a duke's daughter and a duchess in her own right, but damned hard to find anyone worthy of us, isn't there? Even your mother, God rest her soul, was only the daughter of a marquess."

"So he is a ... gentleman? Or as much of a gentleman as any American can be?"

"Unexceptional. Dresses well, coats by Worth, cloisonné snuffbox, keeps a townhouse in Berkeley Square, handsome, popular with the ladies." Magnus dabbed a bit of yolk off his mustache. "Got that damnable accent, but men respect him."

Madeline correctly interpreted the last comment. "He can use his fists."

"Boxes. Punishing left. Good defense. Punched the hell out of Oldfield, and Oldfield can fight."

Madeline finished her meal in silence, thinking hard all the while. She had no intention of marrying ... anyone. Her one venture into romance had ended disastrously. Glancing up, she saw Magnus watching her with a worried frown.

"See here, Mad, if you really object to marrying this fellow, you don't have to. I have a scheme -- "

Well acquainted with her father's schemes, which usually involved gambling and ensuing disaster, Madeline exclaimed, "Heavens, no!" Realizing she had been less than tactful, and possibly had waved the red flag at her bull of a father, she added, "I have a plan, too. I'm going to go to London and explain to Mr. Knight it would be ridiculous for us to wed."

Copyright © 2003 by Christina Dodd