“She is a plain girl, Mr. Trewlove. You fill her with hope.”

“Why shouldn’t she have hope?”

“Few gentlemen danced with her last Season. The balls will start up in earnest soon, and once again she will be a wallflower, and it will hurt all the more because within these walls you are making her forget what she is.”

“Or perhaps it won’t hurt as much because within these walls she can dance to her heart’s content.”

“And gamble. And drink.” She shook the journal at him. “She has smoked a cheroot!”

“Have you?”

“Most certainly not.”

“Would you like to?”

Her eyes bulged, her mouth opened and closed several times as though she were a fish tossed onto a riverbank. “Most certainly not.”

Those words came with less conviction this time around. He leaned forward, clasped his hands on his desk, feeling the minutes ticking by, fearful he was going to miss Selena’s arrival. “What say you to this, Lady Fontaine? I will have one of my gents give you a tour and if you see something to which you heartily object, I’ll forbid entry to your daughter in the future.”

Reaching behind him, he pulled on a sash. A handsome young man soon appeared in the doorway. “Richard, give Lady Fontaine a tour. Be sure to stop in the relaxation room. I think she would benefit from having her feet rubbed.”

“By a strange man?” she asked indignantly.

Standing, ready to head down to the gaming floor, he winked at her. “Trust me. You’ll be ever so glad you did.”

Chapter 12

It was madness, his counting of the hours, minutes, seconds since he’d last seen her, the way his attention kept wandering to the doorway through which she should emerge at any time, the tension building within him as the hour neared ten. He knew where she resided. Perhaps he’d go to her. If for no other reason than to reassure himself that she was well—as well as she could be under the circumstances—to see her, to say something that might make her smile. To lift her burden just a tad. To let her know that he cared—

He brought that thought to a grinding halt as though he’d smacked into a brick wall. He didn’t care for her. She was a customer he wished to please, to ensure she returned and spent her coins here, even though she had yet to leave any at his tables. He wished he had a proper residence to which he could take her, but he kept rooms here. It was convenient. He worked long hours, late into the night, rising early in the morning. Hours were filled looking over his ledgers, striving to determine how he could increase business. He was of a single purpose: to make himself as wealthy as possible. No, not wealthy—successful. He wanted respect, wanted the circumstances of his birth to no longer matter.