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motion.
    “Your brother is barely polite these days, Merrick,” Downing observed, a little too casually. As if his own fury had suddenly been partially contained. Vibrating under the lid of its box.
    “He’s never polite.” No, Andreas was angry. Furious. Livid. Enraged in the way that Roman knew he was going to be called every obscenity in his brother’s vast vocabulary—every gutter jab known to the lower east side, every intellectual snub the hoi polloi used as verbal swords. “But he comes through.”
    Roman folded the fan of his cards and slid Charlotte Chatsworth’s fate in between, discarding the dud into his sleeve in one easy motion. He tapped his cards on the table. “Now then, I don’t have a daughter to bet, so I believe I’m in for ten thousand as well.”
    He pushed a marker to the center of the table, and the wild, coiled sensation exploded.

Chapter 3
    C harlotte descended from the carriage, lifting her skirts to avoid the puddles that littered the road. Not giving in to the volatile impulse to drag the edges through. To dirty the far-too-expensive gown.
    “Your father is sure to be displeased.” A grim, sardonic little smile curved Viola Chatsworth’s lips. “Marquess Binchley watched you behind his glasses of port all night, and you didn’t speak with him more than two minutes at a time. Tut, Charlotte, you will be old and unmarried, and we will be poor and ruined if you don’t fall in line with your father’s grand plans.”
    Fall in line. As if Charlotte had been anything other than a foot soldier her entire life. She had coolly made her way through each party tonight—and had done everything short of violently flirting with all of the men and women alike. Of course, she hadn’t flirted, she’d likely give the whole of London the vapors should she be seen frolicking.
    And speaking with Binchley required fortitude. Two minutes was an eternity.
    Charlotte met her mother’s gaze steadily, nodding in agreement with the words of her failure. Charlotte had learned long ago simply to agree with her mother. For her unpredictable moods, especially around anything concerning her husband, could prove devastating otherwise.
    The creases around Viola’s eyes pinched, and she crisply handed their items to the butler. “I believe I feel an oncoming megrim,” she told the butler. “Send Anna up with my herbs. I doubt I will be available come the morning. Tell anyone who comes by tomorrow that I am with Aunt Edith.”
    Viola strode into the bowels of their house without further comment.
    Charlotte’s stomach tightened. She had failed at that communication as well, as her mother was obviously displeased with her response. What Viola wanted with her these past few weeks, with her sharp glances and steady looks, confounded her. She had come to depend on the steady melancholy punctuated by raging fits her mother had displayed for years. This sudden change had upended Charlotte’s life further.
    Charlotte gazed blankly at the floor, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead. Trying to deal with her mother’s vagaries these days was almost as hard as dealing with her father’s demands. Too many crystal expectations. And far too many encased in shadow.
    Father would yell that explanations were for the weak. That she should always know what to do. That she needed to be perfect.
    But Father wouldn’t be back until the morning, so she had a respite before she received her castigation about her lack of ducal offers. Or her failure to entice the marquess that eve.
    Every time she had thought of anything marriage-related, though, the balloon had simply extended. Knuckles bathed in blood and light eyes dark with promise pushing into her thoughts instead.
    Why she would be thinking such things was the question foremost on her mind. For she was used to her father’s threats and her mother’s apathy and cutting remarks. No reason to feel the need to rebel now. Perhaps just knowing the end was near