One
Antigua, West Indies, 1864
Lady Ravenna Huntley, unwed sister to the Duke of Embry, was in the biggest pickle of her life, and that was saying a lot, considering she’d been a fugitive on one of her brother’s ships across the Atlantic. Now, she was about to lose a substantial fortune playing vingt-et-un while disguised as a man…unless she did something she’d never considered before.
Unless she cheated.
This win was a matter of survival. She was almost out of money, barring her last pair of earbobs. Notwithstanding her previous exploits, her brother would have her hide if his precious sister ended up getting thrown into the stocks on an island in the British West Indies.
But she wasn’t a cheater and never had been. Ravenna could understand how desperate times made people consider unpalatable options because at the moment, she truly was out of options. She hadn’t fully thought through her plan. Yet again.
She could win if she bluffed her way through it, but if she lost… Well, better not think of that. Why was it so bloody sweltering? It felt as though sweat was pouring down her back in rivers. She eyed the men gathering around the table in the gaming hell at fashionable Starlight Hotel and Club and tugged at her collar.
Jump first and think later had served her marginally well over the past six months.
Not now, naturally.
Her overwarm skin itched beneath the scratchy fabric of her clothing. Men’s fashion, while practical, chafed unbearably, especially when sweat was involved. And right now, she was boiling like a hog farmer on a blistering day. A part of her—a sad, whimsical, minuscule part of her—missed the silks and the satins of her gowns, but those times were behind her. These days, she went by Mr. Raven Hunt, young nob and ne’er-do-well who enjoyed a spot of gambling…especially when finding his amiable, charming self in need of quick, easy coin.
Though said coin at the moment was neither quick nor easy.
She’d lost count of the cards ages ago…because of him.
Ravenna gulped, her heart kicking against her ribs, currently restrained beneath a starched band of linen. Despite its functional purpose of keeping her identity as a female hidden, the stiff, restrictive layer made it quite hard to breathe. And at the moment, she needed to capably inhale, exhale, and focus, mostly because of the inscrutable gentleman across the felted table who watched her with hard, piercing eyes.
Mr. Chase. Shipping magnate. Undisputed local sovereign.
Ruthless, cold, powerful.
Her one remaining adversary.
His sinful looks didn’t help. Lips, luscious and wicked to a fault, were framed by a square jawline covered in a dusting of dark shadow, and an aquiline nose was drawn between high-bladed cheekbones. A pair of thick slashes for brows sat over an onyx gaze that was so mercurial it was impossible to read. His eyes reminded her of a churning ocean at midnight, lightning flashing over its surface. Those storm-dark eyes were a study in temptation alone—she’d only ever seen such intensity in one person before. She shook off the unwelcome near miss of a memory. It had been a very long time ago, and that boy was dead and gone.
This man made parts of her sit up and take notice.
Forget his looks, you twit, and think!
Ravenna shook herself hard, hoping to knock some sense into her own head. What were the odds that he would be at her table, over this pot? As far as she knew, Mr. Chase wasn’t known to frequent the exclusive gaming rooms of the Starlight Hotel. On occasion, he’d have dinner at the exclusive restaurant there, a beautiful woman on his arm, but Ravenna had only glimpsed him from a distance.
It would be impossible to live on an island and not know who wielded the most influence here or the man who ran most of the trading ports in the islands. But powerful people made for powerful enemies, and she’d hoped to avoid him and escape his attention.
No such luck, however.
He did not resemble a soft, displaced Englishman in the least. Ravenna narrowed her eyes and fought the urge to yank on her sweltering, suffocating collar. While he didn’t seem to be an expert gambler, she could tell he wasn’t used to losing. She frowned. Had he meant to play poorly early on so she wouldn’t suspect him…and then lure her into this final snare? Or was she reading into things?
Blast, her own sharp instincts were failing her.
She peeked at her excellent hand—possibly a winning hand—unless her opponent held a natural of twenty-one. The last round had seen all of the other players overdrawn, except for the dratted Mr. Chase who claimed he was content with his two cards. Ravenna eyed them and ground her jaw in frustration. She was so close. She needed the money for lodgings and food, or even passage back to England. And besides, Mr. Chase didn’t need it. He was richer than Midas, or so the rumor mill proclaimed.
A bead of sweat rolled down her skin, beneath the linen drawn mercilessly across her breasts. She wished she’d left an hour ago, her pockets well lined and heavy. But no. Greed, overconfidence, and plain stupidity had taken over.
And she might as well admit it: smitten lady parts.
Not just because Mr. Chase was beyond a shade of a doubt unnervingly gorgeous, but because her shocking attraction to him—to any man—was something she had never, ever experienced. His arrival had thrown her off her game.
Ravenna didn’t fancy gentlemen; she didn’t fancy anyone.
In London, suitor after suitor had been foisted upon her—rich, titled, handsome fellows—and she’d felt nothing. Even when offers had been made, she had found a way to thwart them.
After all, she’d been engaged twice and almost compromised into a third betrothal.
The first had been arranged in her infancy, but that betrothal had been squashed by her father when her future groom had taken off for parts unknown without so much as a by-your-leave. Ravenna didn’t know what could possibly have made Cordy do such a thing, but she hadn’t dwelled on it. She’d been glad to be rid of the pesky menace!
Over the years, the two of them had been occasional friends but mostly enemies, having childhood adventures between their adjoining country estates in Kettering. He had been obnoxious and arrogant, and he had thrown it in her face that when they were married, she would have to do everything he said. He’d sported a blackened eye for weeks after that declaration.
Much later on after his disappearing act, she’d been saddened to learn from his brother that he’d perished from illness.
Betrothal number two had been a momentary blip in sanity. After her brother Rhystan’s love match, Ravenna had felt the first stirrings of indecision. Didn’t she want a family of her own? She would have to wed…eventually. Perhaps she could attract the ideal sort of gentleman: old, bored, maybe on his deathbed, and willing to let her live her life. Lord Thatcher had ticked all the boxes—widower, older, quiet—and after he’d proposed, she convinced herself she might have been content. But in the end, Ravenna couldn’t go through with it.