A Wager with a Duke

Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Epilogue Don’t Miss Tamara’s Other Romance Series About the Author Copyright A Wager with a Duke The Wayward Yorks, Book 1 Copyright © 2023 by Tamara Gill Cover Art by Wicked Smart Designs Editor Grace Bradley Editing, LLC This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a database and retrieval system or transmitted in any form or any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the owner of copyright and the above publishers. Chapter One London 1815 Henry strolled through Whites and, with a sporadic glance down at the betting book, halted his steps in an instant. Normally, what was scribbled in the tome would not seize his attention. He wasn't in London to rut about like so many others were wont to do. But the sight of the new-to-town Miss Sophie York's name, in bold black font and forthright on the page, caught his engagement. Although she had not been deemed the Season's diamond due to her lack of fortune, this year's favorite was part of a bet. He shook his head, having lost count of how many ladies were termed such. Who really knew who was the most accomplished, well-bred, pretty, and pure? If those were all the requirements for being the most-sought-after in London, then he could qualify. A large hand slapped his back and lurched him forward. He tumbled toward the betting book before he righted his stance. "Holland, are you going to add your name to the bet? Come, man, we know you'll likely win if you do. Not a woman in London who could refuse your charm, or so I'm told on a nightly basis," Lord Bankes affirmed at his side. A notion that many in London and, in fact, across England were led to believe. Not that any of it was true. If the ton knew of his sexual inexperience, he would be laughed out of London by nightfall. "Perchance I shall," he said, picking up the quill and scribbling his name below so many others. He did not mind playing along with the illusion. It kept him secure in many ways. "Miss Sophie York, I must admit, is the purest angel to ever walk the wooden floorboards of London's most affluent homes. I daresay that under her fine gowns—even if they were bestowed upon her by Countess Kemsley—hide two deity wings that would carry her up to the heavens themselves." Henry scoffed and turned his rudeness into a cough. He nodded, not daring to disagree with a man so exemplary with his explanation of the divine. "I certainly agree. We have not been introduced, but I have seen her at different events, and I hope to gain an introduction soon." "Well, you must if you wish to win this bet. You do know what you scribbled your name down beneath, do you not?" Bankes asked him, his eyes alight with curiosity. "Of course," Henry stated, his answer brooking no argument. He swallowed and quickly read the terms of the bet and balked. "Who wrote this bet up? The first gentleman to make her fall in love with him wins a thousand pounds?" He continued reading and felt his eyes growing ever larger by the minute. "To help with her lack of dowry when the nuptials occur." Henry almost cast up his accounts at what he signed, not that he had to take the bet too seriously. He could easily ignore that he ever signed it and pretend to participate. Another part of him cringed at the idea of Miss York not knowing that she was the center of such a ruse and would not know why so many gentlemen would court her and pay attention to her every desire. "True, she isn't flush with cash, but if you look at all the names written, they're all rich enough to support her and her mother, whom I hear lives in a cottage in the country somewhere. But," Bankes continued, "she is a pretty little debutante and will make a splendid bed partner. I do hope she's not as angelic in the sheets as she appears on the dancefloor. I would appreciate a vixen in the bedroom." "Indeed," Holland managed, turning on his heel and leaving Bankes at the betting book alone. He was in London to find a wife. He was eight and twenty, old enough to settle and have children, an heir if he were so fortunate, but to court a person without their knowing of the game afoot was wrong. He hated to think what she would say or how she would react should she become aware that whoever won her heart had played such a game with the gentlemen in town this Season. Well, he would not do it. He would pretend to take part but not court her, no matter how pretty she was. Plenty of other young women were just as sweet-tempered and new to town whom he could meet. Not to mention several embarking on their second or even third Season. A wallflower would suit his temperament, his genuine one in any case. He did not like to be the hub of attention, the beau of the ball, the rake every matron wanted in