Yet his heart was hammering in his chest as if he might be suffering some sort of attack. No, it couldn’t be. He was a numbers man, not into theatrics, not into emotions or personal dramas, or even women, really. Oh, he’d had his fair share of rolls in the hay, and he’d even courted a few when he was younger, but the idea of marriage had always been repugnant to him, despite the ongoing pressure from his mother to produce an heir.But now, staring at the animated face of Miss Kitty Stanley, he was undeniably changed.He’d succumbed to one of the Viscount Maurice Stanley’s numerous invitations to visit his London apartment. Though they knew each other from Parliament, they’d developed their friendship at Spencer’s, the gentleman’s club on St. James Street that catered to London’s rich and famous, where they often sat next to one another at the gambling tables. Maurice Stanley had a gambling problem. Perhaps they both did, because surely Harry’s interest in gambling was more than a passing fancy, it was a need—it fed him.
