A Gamble at Sunset

Book 1: Betting Against the Duke

by Vanessa Riley

Genres: African American Romance; Regency Romance; Multicultural & Interracial Romance

Synopsis

Award-winning author Vanessa Riley turns all convention on its head for the first in an enchanting, dazzlingly diverse new Regency romance trilogy featuring a duke, three sisters, and a tantalizing bet with a most desirable reward...

When a duke discovers the woman he loves was tricked into marrying another, the master chess player makes the now-widowed Viscountess the highest-stakes wager of his life in a last-ditch effort to win her affection: he will find husbands for her two sisters—or depart forever. Thus begins a sparkling new series from acclaimed author Vanessa Riley.

Georgina Wilcox, a wallflower with hidden musical talents, is furious when her reclusive older sister—the recently widowed Viscountess—refuses sorely needed help from the Duke of Torrance, the only gentleman who has shown kindness to the bereft Wilcox sisters. Georgina decides to get back at her sister and shock the Viscountess by kissing the first willing stranger she meets in the enchanting gardens of Anya House. Unfortunately, her sister is not the sole witness. A group of reporters and the ton’s leading gossips catch Georgina in a passionate embrace with a reticent composer, Lord Mark Sebastian.

The third son of an influential marquis, the tongue-tied Mark is determined to keep the scandal from ruining Georgina’s reputation and his own prospects of winning the celebrated Harlbert’s Prize for music. Under the guise of private voice lessons, the two embark on a daring gamble to fool the ton into believing that their feigned courtship is honorable while bolstering Georgina’s singing genius to captivate potential suitors. Sexist cartoons, family rivalries, and an upcoming ball test the fake couple’s resolve. Will their sudden fiery collaboration—and growing attraction—prove there’s nothing false about a first kiss and scandalously irresistible temptation?

Release date: May 21, 2024

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

Never admit falling in love with a portrait.

Never talk of how the eyes of the painting followed me along the halls of Kenwood, or how the joy in her sun-kissed cheeks stayed on my mind.

Never utter a word of how a voiceless woman made of oils and canvas, not sugar and spice and other niceties, captivated my dreams.

Said aloud this would be the ravings of a madman, not an artist who hungered for beauty. I tried not to think of the painting or my foolish whispers said to her and rode a little faster to keep up with my so-called friendly companions.

“Will you be seeing her later, Sebastian?” Alexander Melton, the Earl of Livingston, hiccupped and wobbled in his saddle. “You can tell us.”

“Leave the musician alone. We’ve had enough jokes at his expense. Artists are temperamental sorts, but that spurs their creativity.” The Duke of Torrance was a new acquaintance that Livingston and I met at a Farrington coaching inn. Before I could stop him, the earl gleefully told my story of being in love with the painted woman.

The duke, a tall man on a silver mare, looked confused for most of this. I wondered if foolish conversations differed greatly from crazy things said in Saint Petersburg. Half British, half Russian, he seemed distant or perhaps nervous.

“Will you be in town long, Your Grace?” I asked, hoping to change subjects.

“My current plans are up in the air. Once I get this first visit done, I will determine how long I reside in London.”

He and Livingston began to discuss the perfect places to live.

My shame lifted and I secretly thought of living at Kenwood, being a music tutor and getting to see the painting every day.

“Sebastian? Sebastian?”

“Yes. Livingston.” My cheeks burned. Then I relaxed, remembering the man couldn’t read thoughts, only newspapers and science journals. “Did you say something?”

The earl leaned so far in his saddle I thought he’d fall onto his stupid head.

I wasn’t so fortunate. Our new friend sped up and kept the fool upright.

“Thank you, Torrance.” The earl grasped his reins a little tighter. “Sebastian, your mother sent you to Kenwood to ogle a painting. Now you’re in love with Lady Elizabeth Finch-Hatton, a woman idealized on canvas in her youth who today is in her fifties and married. Prahmn will have a fit, but he might approve if you took her to bed for a prize.”

“The Duke of Prahmn? Sounds scandalous.” The duke’s diction sounded crisp, very British, none of the nasally accent Livingston said a man born in Saint Petersburg should possess.

“My father? No scandals. He still has hopes that I turn to the church, the path of a third son. No, I was at Kenwood for renovations. Dry rot gave the new owners ideas. A large music room will be designed, but my mother offered my expertise.” I sat up straighter on my mount. “I guess she finds me good at such things.”

“Oh, Sebastian, you always sell yourself short. Your Grace, he’s a musical genius. His name will be among the masters. No one knows more about the acoustics of a room than my friend. When he finishes his newest composition and wins the Harlbert’s Prize everyone will know the name Lord Mark Sebastian.”

I smiled as did the duke. Perhaps they’d both forget my enthusiasm for the painting of the Mansfield’s nieces at Kenwood, Lady Elizabeth and her lively cousin.

Livingston reached over and slapped me on my shoulder. In prideful, drunken tones he said, “My friend is brilliant.”

Fine. Maybe it was good the earl didn’t Humpty-Dumpty on this cobblestone. Who else would sing my praises? One couldn’t always rely on being your mother’s favorite.

Nonetheless, this feeling of pride was short-lived as Livingston reared back and said, “Pity, a live female, one of flesh and blood and the proper age, frightens the sensibilities of our pianoforte master.”

I fumed at him for being right. I was a master at the keys. The music in my head kept spinning and I remembered the portrait and the way the artist chose to paint her. The moment before she danced. Her smile and the way sunlight reflected from her satin gown would never leave my soul.

Music should be written for her.

Perhaps she was the muse to inspire my composition for the Harlbert competition. Then everyone, including Prahmn, would respect me.

We continued riding in silence, while a blustery wind blew at our backs. It was colder than it should be. Spring should be warm.

Soon we approached Blackfriars Bridge. The huge stone structure formed with high arches led travelers over the Thames. I thought we’d turn another way by now. The duke kept barreling forward. Working class, industrial, what could a duke want on that side of the river?

“Whoa, Torrance.” Livingston cantered closer to him. “You said at the coaching inn you wanted us to assist you on a mission of life and death. You never mentioned crossing the river at sunset.”

“Nearing sunset. There’s plenty of time to go and come back.” The duke offered him a withering gaze, one that could be given by Prahmn or any old man who’d been to war or battled great odds. Torrance had to be in his midthirties, ten more years than what I’d lived, about two less than Livingston. “For a man of science,” the duke said, “you have strange superstitions.”

“It rained on my wedding day.” Livingston guffawed, and then sneered. “If I’d heeded and not gone through with it, I wouldn’t have lost four years of my life.”

My friend had a terrible marriage that ended when his wife abandoned him. “Well,” I said, “perhaps if you hadn’t run on so much and gossiped, you might’ve noticed the incompatibilities and fared better.”

My barb made him shut his mouth, but my bitter words made my stomach sour. “Sorry, sir. That was uncalled for. No one knows what a gamble at love will bring.”

“No offense taken, Sebastian.” The earl looked sad, even wistful. “Damned woman. Would’ve been better off with a painting of her.”

The duke glanced at Livingston. His mouth tightened to a dot. “Everything has challenges,” he said, “and it’s best to be selective. Give your heart too soon to someone unworthy, it’s difficult to get it back.”

“Thank you, Torrance. But, Sebastian, you can make amends by buying ale at the next stop because I’m not going over the bridge.”

“If a little water frightens, you sirs will never survive a visit to my Saint Petersburg. Too many temporary bridges crossing plenty of rivers and streams. Here, you Londoners have it easy. Blackfriars looks permanent and sturdy. That good Portland stone should be sufficient.”

“Torrance, the bridge is fine.” I wove my horse between the men as if to keep the peace. “Let’s all find a tavern and go on the duke’s mission tomorrow.”

Livingston swayed, pulling my scope from my saddlebag, the tube with lenses I used to bird-watch. “Oh, I see why you want to cross, Torrance. There’s a woman walking over by the docks. I can take you to prettier ones on this side of the Thames. The price for the evening will be good.”

We’d just met the duke and Livingston was trying to take him to a brothel. I grabbed the scope and, despite my better nature, took a glance at the object of the earl’s attention. “You can be truly horrible. What kind of welcome is this for the duke? He’s back from Russia, thinking of staying, and you’re so drunk that—”

Can’t breathe.

Can’t think. Got to think.

Say a word, Mark. But nothing came out.

The two began talking or bickering. I cared not. I was grateful that their arguing might ignore my shyness, the dire feeling which sometimes stole my words.

Nonetheless, I returned the scope to my eye. I had to catch another glimpse of the woman on the other side of the river.

Was this twirling woman the same woman in the Kenwood portrait?

Patting my horse’s mane, I couldn’t settle or wait. I started toward the bridge.

“Can’t hold your seat, Sebastian? Are you more sotted than me?”

I was, but not from beauty, not ale. “Just thinking of Kenwood again. Fine property. Nice music room. Made for twirling—I mean dancing.”

“Thinking of the painting again? You need a real woman. Come with us, Torrance.” Livingston sounded pained, almost normal. “Delay this dash across the bridge until tomorrow. It’s too much of a gamble at sunset. That neighborhood—”

“Gambling? I don’t do that anymore, but I’ll reward whoever among my new friends makes it to the other side first.”

“No, Your Grace, I might fall but Sebastian’s always light in the pockets.” Livingston leaned a little too much to the left and I reluctantly saved him.

“Torrance, he’s too unsteady.” I shoved the tube into my coat. “I need to make sure he gets home safely.”

“What is that?”

“Your Grace, it’s a pocket scope,” Livingston said, slipping backward in his seat. “Young Sebastian uses it to identify birds—the ones in the sky and the beauties in petticoats strolling leisurely in the parks or gardens about London. The way his cheeks reddened, he’s spotted one ’cross the river. What bird, sir?”

“A greenfinch, Livingston.” I grinned a little, thinking of the woman walking on the other side of the Thames fluttering her arms in an emerald coat.

The duke sighed, then shook his head. “Perhaps, it would be better to do this alone.”

Livingston nodded. “Goodbye! Do svidaniya!”

The earl started away from the bridge, wobbling the whole way. “I’d better accompany him. I wish—”

“I understand, Sebastian. If I settle in Mayfair, you must visit. I will be in need of a piano room, one grander than Kenwood’s.”

“You’ve been to the estate?”

“Several times. My father and Mansfield were friends. I too have stared at the same portrait.”

The woman across the river—had the single Torrance found a match to the prettiest woman to pose for the artist?

Suddenly, I felt jealous.

“Go catch your friend. He looks as if he’ll hit a house.”

Torrance doffed his hat and started toward the bridge.

The leaning Livingston waved. “Watch the river, my tzar.”

The earl had drooped to the side. He’d fall and hurt himself. Livingston was a fool, but my friend. I rode after the earl, wishing I’d made it to the other side of the Thames.

I hated feeling helpless and voiceless.

My older sister wouldn’t listen. She thought I couldn’t handle death and sent me with the younger Wilcoxes to the kitchen to make sugared biscuits. I might be a good baker, but when did biscuits change anything?

My brother-in-law, Tavis, was still dying. He’d gambled badly and was now paying with his life. I folded my arms about me and thought about turning back. Instead, I spun around, a complete circle, and kept walking.

A man from the other side of the river barreled across Blackfriars Bridge like he chased cannonballs. I swirled to the left, moving closer to the side of the road that hugged the Thames.

The fellow on a beautiful silver horse didn’t pass by. He stopped in front of me.

“Miss. Excuse me.” His glare demanded my attention. I hated men expecting to have my time because my family chose to live on this side of the Thames, close to industry.

The road might as well be Wilcox Way, not Ground Street. Our house, offices, and warehouses were located down the lane.

“Miss, you must help me.”

I gawked at him and his expensive charcoal-colored coat and hat.

Whenever I made coal deliveries with Mr. Thom, men like this, wealthy and important-looking souls, insisted upon speaking. In the next breath, they solicited for companionship.

Not today of all days. I couldn’t be bothered and sidestepped.

The fellow maneuvered closer. “Did you hear me, miss? Is all well?”

“Yes. And I’m not a prostitute. Go away.”

His jaw dropped.

He put a gloved hand to his thin mustache. “I suppose I’m glad you’re not.”

“Good.” I spun and walked the other direction away from the man, away from death.

“Miss, you’re a Wilcox? That sassy tongue can only be inherited through the blood.”

“I’m a proud Wilcox woman.” I stared but couldn’t recall his face. “Who are you?”

“Jahleel Charles, the Duke of Torrance. Your sister sent for me. Lady Hampton said it was a matter of life and death.”

Oh.

The letters Katherine and the doctors begrudgingly wrote succeeded. Tavis begged her to find the duke, his childhood best friend. “Go down the lane, Your Grace. The last house, that’s our house for now . . .”

Sobs filled my throat. Why were the tears coming now? Hadn’t I resolved that we’d lose everything? Oh, I hated that Katherine might be right about me not being able to control my emotions.

Remembering Mama’s dignity, I raised my head and projected my voice. “The end of Ground Street. Please visit number twenty-two. Go now.”

“Your voice is melodic.” He put a finger to lips that were neither thick nor too thin. “Do you sing?”

“My family thinks I can carry a tune, but they are the only ones to ever hear me.” I pointed again. “Katherine is waiting.”

“I know she hates waiting, but I can’t leave you. You’re too upset.”

“Sir, I walk . . . or run or spin when I’m upset.”

“As in a reel?” The duke jumped down and held out his arm. “Then shall we have this walk?”

He bowed to me. “If your sister knew I’d left you in a state, she’d be vexed. We don’t want Lady Hampton vexed. I remember it being a difficult thing to endure.”

Shaking my head, I lowered his arm. “I don’t need protecting, sir . . . Your Grace.”

The man dug into his brass-buttoned greatcoat and offered me his handkerchief. “Perhaps I’m in need. Vexing can be hard to take. Come now. I also hate being late. Dance with me to the house.”

His humor and compassionate tone made me relent. Feeling defeated, I wiped my eyes on his cloth, then started walking beside him.

Halfway to the house, he asked, “Which Wilcox sister are you? I’d heard there were three.”

“Georgina Wilcox. There are four Wilcox women including Lady Hampton. She’s the best of us.”

He looked away, maybe toward the rippling Thames.

“You look flushed, Your Grace. Is walking too much?”

“Nyet. Memories, Miss Wilcox. Nothing dampens them. They are soaring like meteors, even when I crash to earth.”

A poetic soul, and a bit dramatic. I supposed those words were for my benefit. “Sir. Maybe it’s best we wait outside. It might be easier to listen for a servant to signal my brother-in-law has passed.”

“That seems a shame to have come this far to be late.” His tone was kind. “It is up to you. I will not leave you outside alone.”

The man had traveled far to come at Tavis and Katherine’s summons. Yet I wanted to admit to a stranger that all our family’s problem stemmed from Tavis’s dealings and Katherine allowing him to run everything amok.

The duke with large hazel eyes stared at me. Then he nodded. “Tavis Palmers, the viscount, and I were once close friends. Today we are not. I understand what you’ve said and haven’t.”

Before I could feign ignorance, or acknowledge a kinship with a stranger who too probably suffered at Tavis’s negligent hands, a man on horseback appeared.

“Torrance,” he called out, “I can join after all.”

Before he could jump down, our man of all work, Mr. Thom, came from the stables wielding a pitchfork. “Be gone you, you creditor! Let the scarecrow come get ’em before you pounce.”

Nothing was funny, but this made me laugh, maybe release a little of my frustration. “He has you like a rogue chicken, sir. So sorry.” I turned to Mr. Thom. “Be easy. He’s a friend of Lady Hampton’s guest.”

The duke waved this man closer. “He’s no threat, Mr. Thom. I can vouch for him. This is Lord Mark Sebastian. I believe him harmless.”

The fellow jostled his top hat, which exposed straight brownish-black hair. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

“You’ve dispatched Livingston to a ditch?” the duke asked.

His lordship’s lips parted and again nothing came out.

Then he hiccupped.

I turned to the duke. “You brought a drunk friend with you. None of Tavis’s friends are any good.”

His Grace frowned and when he turned to his friend, the younger man whispered, “Gorgeous.”

The fellow must be quite in his cups. Most, who weren’t seeking courtesans, never talked about anything except my height, especially in comparison to my lovely sisters.

Me. I was tall at five foot nine inches. Yes, a tall Meg. At twenty-four, I’d describe myself as a tall wallflower. With my last birthday passing a month ago, I was beyond being a wallflower. I was a full-on matron. With no desire to be unhappily wed just to gain a new name, a Mrs. Somebody, or to give another fortune hunter access to the little Wilcox Coal money we had left, I refused all offers.

Charging myself with protecting us now, I folded my arms. “Your Grace, for my sister’s sake, don’t make a mockery of Lord Hampton’s final moments. Perhaps you both should go.”

“I’ve been summoned. But, Sebastian,” the duke said, “while I appreciate the company, go back across the river. Find a close tavern—”

“There’s one on this side. It’s closer. You can wait for the duke there.” I pointed, hoping to be rid of a fool that called me gorgeous.

The duke tossed him a coin. “Go sit at the tavern. Wait for me.”

Mr. Thom, our man-of-all-work, waved a finger at the duke. “I like this one. He’s free with his money.”

“But . . .” The fellow hit at his chest. “Turban. Gorgeous.”

His Grace came closer. “That painting at Kenwood. It wasn’t Lady Elizabeth that captured your attention—was it, Sebastian?”

The fellow’s cheeks brightened to a burning red color.

I stepped to the right. “That way, close to the lumberyard. If you hit water, you rode too far.”

Tipping his hat, bowing his head, the young man trotted off.

Then I led the duke inside to await Tavis’s death.

The smell of the Thames had never been good to me. I didn’t visit it often but when I did, this rotten-egg smell awaited and set my nostril hairs aflame.

A few paces from the house on Ground Street, I straightened in my saddle. I no longer needed to play a drunken, speechless fool. Sobered by the woman’s tears and her disappointment in my inarticulate conduct, I needed to be away.

But she was beautiful.

Such gorgeous dark eyes, and like Dido Belle’s, the Mansfield cousin who had caught my heart; her sun-kissed face made me feel so warm. Styled in an emerald coat and silk turban, she was a modern version of Dido. This was a woman to know, a woman I could love.

Yet, the lady was a friend of the duke’s. What good could he say of me?

I was a man without a fortune, with an inability to speak more than a word, a third done sonata. And Torrance already knew of my love for the Kenwood painting.

No, there was nothing to be done to recommend me, not unless I won the Harlbert’s Prize.

Slacking the reins, I approached the swirling water. Rushing the banks, it looked turbulent. The air felt cold like an icy bath.

Whatever the Duke of Torrance had ridden into must be horrible. He looked as if he was about to be dunked in a river of fire.

Maybe I should’ve apologized and stayed.

Yet, exactly how was I to do that? I was a wordless buffoon whose love for an old portrait had me wishing for a stranger to be her.

Goodness. Yes, this woman was easy on my eyes and her voice could be an angel’s.

My brother, Christopher, the navy man, wrote to me of his activities—his intense love affair with a woman he’d met in Bridgetown, Barbados. As much as he wanted to bring her to London, he wasn’t as bold as his commander, Prince William, who escorted his Dorothy to Britain. My brother wouldn’t dare, not with our father’s famous prejudice against foreigners.

Let her be Catholic, or anything but Anglican, and the patron saint of hypocrisy—my father—would be indignant. A hint of color from anything but a summer tan would make him rage.

The cold wind blew. I’d be trapped here on this side of the stinking river because of my inability to assert myself, my lack of prospects, and loss of rational thoughts. Yet, I still wanted to know her and be worthy of her.

Winning the Harlbert’s Prize would redeem me.

My friend Livingston went not to his brothel. He was safe from being seduced of his money and his own free will. I should be home working on my future.

The little man with a pitchfork accused me of being a creditor. Never been called that. I owed my mother everything, even my current living.

My father saw no use for me and my music. I was his spare’s spare.

God forbid anything happened to my two brothers.

My mother’s heart would be broken, and I’d have to turn into a lecherous, ignorant fool to please the father who couldn’t be pleased.

Not me.

I’d rather go down, wade in the water, and drown myself in the foul Thames.

I led the Duke of Torrance into our modest, yellow home—sunshine-colored paint, matching papered walls adorned every room. Not much else. Many possessions of my proud Wilcox family had been sold to keep creditors away.

The duke stopped at a sun-bleached spot. The window along the stairs had done its damage tattling about portraits that were missing.

Before he asked about it, I pointed him to our parlor to where a sofa and conversational chairs and a pianoforte congregated. “Your Grace, wait in here. I’ll go see if Tavis is ready to see you.”

“Please don’t leave again.” The duke sounded desperate.

Maybe I should’ve allowed his friend to stay. “I’m not going if you’re not going.”

“You have a sense of humor, Miss Wilcox. I like that.”

Before I could curtsy and go check with Katherine and the doctors, I saw movement beneath the blanket thrown over our floral-patterned sofa. Then the dearest, angriest voice sounded. “Is he a bill collector? They come at all hours.”

“Milaya, come out, please,” the duke said. “I don’t wish to be seen talking to furniture. It wouldn’t be the first time my sanity’s been questioned.”

“My name is not Milaya. It’s Lydia.”

“Milaya means ‘sweetheart.’ ” He took off his hat. “Please come.”

“Tell him I’m not his little milaya either if he’s come to take things.”

I stooped near the blanket. “He’s not a bill collector. Come out, Lydia.”

Her little brown face poked out. The five-year-old glanced at him with her solid gray eyes and sniffly nose. “Then he’s not here to buy the business? It’s not for sale. It’s Papa’s. No sale.”

“Fine,” the duke said, “I won’t procure it.”

She came a little closer to him and tapped on his knee. “I said don’t buy it. Leave it for Katherine. She loves it the most.”

“You sure she’ll still love it tomorrow, milaya? I hear it’s a woman’s right to change her mind.” Until now the duke sounded reasonable and polite. These words held a tiny fiery barb.

Katherine might have to explain, but she’d stop confiding in us all when she married Tavis.

He set his hat on the sofa. “Why are you each worried that someone will buy Wilcox Coal?”

“Debt, silly. Our brother-in-law can’t count so well. He spends more than he has. More than we have.”

The little girl confessed all before I could reach her and clap my fingers over her mouth. Giving her the be. . .