Instead of being impressed, Dulcenia snorted. While she slightly recalled being introduced to the handsome, sandy-haired gentleman during her come-out ball, any other interactions between them had been nonexistent. He had never sought her out to dance, there were no lingering glances from across the room, and she definitely couldn’t imagine that he was anxious to spend any sort of time with her at this house party.
“Do you not find the marquess favorable?” her companion asked pointedly. “Most find him rather handsome.”
“It’s not that.” Dulcenia shrugged. “His title just sounds so similar to ‘dollhouse.’” She snickered at her own joke, but Lady Osbourne didn’t seem amused. Sobering quickly, Dulcenia added, “Are you sure you told him it wasmehe was to entertain with his suit? Because I find it highly unlikely that he would have accepted.”
“Men don’t know what they want until we tell them,” Lady Osbourne returned. “He may not have been a devoted suitor in the past, but I can promise that when you meet again, his attention will be engaged, if for no other reason than your connection to me. The key is to keep that interest until it results in a proposal.”
Of course. How hard can that be?Dulcenia thought sourly. In her experience, if a gentleman did dare to cross paths with her, it generally didn’t take long before they were offering their excuses to scurry in the opposite direction. But Lady Osbourne appeared so confident that Dulcenia fell silent and decided that time would tell.
“Has your feral bride arrived yet?”
Carew was sipping a glass of port in his personal sitting room and looking out the window at Ross’s ducal residence when Marcus rapped on the door and entered without so much as an invitation.
He rolled his eyes and slid a dry glance to the man who had made himself comfortable on the settee with a wide grin. “Victor of Averyron is the only feral individual with whom I am familiar. Not only is he a French, male child, Miss Hargrove is none of those things.”
“If you say so.” Marcus gave a long-suffering sigh. “She could certainly adopt the part.”
Carew frowned and walked toward him. He sat across from the earl in a wingback chair. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were against this ridiculous endeavor.”
Marcus lifted his hands, as if his presence was obvious. “To watch the spectacle firsthand, naturally. To hear you recount the events won’t be nearly as entertaining as watching it all unfold in front of me.” He crossed his arms behind his head with a contented sigh. “I can’t wait to see your expression when she steps down from that carriage and you realize what an error it was to agree to such an asinine suggestion. I expect you to go running back to London as quickly as you can manage.”
Carew shook his head as he downed the rest of his drink. “It sounds to me as if you think I can’t handle the situation being presented.”
“Oh, I think you shall perform famously.” Marcus’s grin broadened. “All the way to the parson’s noose.”
Carew tapped a finger on his empty glass and then set it aside and crossed his arms. “In that respect, I propose a wager.”
Marcus instantly sat up straighter. “Oh? I daresay I’m intrigued.”
“I thought you might be,” Carew returned dryly. The earl’s name was in every betting book in London, and perhaps all of England. “I shall do my best to be the most devoted swain for the duration of the house party, but at the end, when a proposal is expected, I shall bid the lady adieu with my fondest regards.”
“And if you fall for her charms?” Marcus asked, his expression alight with interest.
Carew shrugged. “Then I shall gracefully bow to you in your infinite wisdom.”
Marcus considered that, and then shook his head. “The stakes are too low. While I would enjoy the chance to see you eat crow, there needs to be more of an incentive for you to resist the gel. I wouldn’t find it that much of a hardship to do so, as I am a confirmed bachelor in every way, but I daresay you’ve always been a bit more softhearted than I.”
Carew wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that, but he didn’t have time to comment, for Marcus snapped his fingers together.
“I’ve got it! Since being dragged to the altar will be enough of a punishment for you, I shall intercede if I feel you are falling for the chit and save you from a lifetime of remorse.”
“What do you mean by ‘intercede’?” Carew asked warily. “I don’t wish to injure Miss Hargrove unnecessarily, as she likely doesn’t even know of the letter.”
Marcus snorted. “Don’t be naïve. Of course she does! She’s most certainly in league with someone to bring you to heel. While I can’t yet understand why they chose you, I’m just glad I’m not the intended target.” He waved a hand. “Stop looking at me that way. I won’t ruin her. I assure you her reputation will be intact. I will merely step in with reinforcements if it appears you are in need of rescue.”
“How very gallant of you,” Carew drawled.
Marcus held up a hand. “Ah, but I haven’t set my terms.”
“And what would those be?”
“If I manage to free you from the clutches of wedded bliss”—he lifted a brow—“I should be compensated for my hard work.” Ensuring that he had Carew’s full attention, he added, “I want your latest mistress.”
Carew considered this for a moment. Mistresses could be found every day, but the latest actress he’d employed was celebrated, not only on the stage but for her abilities in the bedchamber. Ever since he had become her protector, Marcus had been lusting after her.
As the silence lengthened, his companion got to his feet and held out his hand. “Do we have a wager?”
Carew studied the other man, his dark features that were a perfect opposite to his own fair coloring. He reached out and accepted the other man’s grasp and shook. For centuries, it was said that the gesture was a sign of peaceful intent.
