“Never take a wife?” Jasper said, dimples deepening for the benefit of the room. “Miss Tolliver, you would doom me to bachelorhood for the crime of daring to play against you? I had thought you more merciful.”
“Mercy is not my style.”
The room tittered with laughter, and even the duke, chalking his cue, gave a faint smile. “Perhaps Miss Tolliver is onlysparing some unfortunate lady the burden of being yoked to you, Deverell.”
Lottie’s smile flashed brighter. “Precisely so, Your Grace. You see, I am doing England a service.”
Jasper’s gaze remained steady on hers, dimples deepening. “Then I can only hope Miss Tolliver does not play too precisely—else all of England will mourn the wives denied me.”
The company roared, quite delighted by the exchange, and though Jasper smiled, his eyes told a different story:You may jest, but I asked in earnest. Do you truly mean to refuse me before them all?
Lottie tilted her chin, her cue tapping lightly against the floor. “Play well, sir,” she said sweetly. “For I do not intend to let you win.”
Chapter 32
Jasper adjusted his grip upon the cue, smiling in lazy amusement, though he was anything but idle.
No, he did not expect Miss Tolliver to let him win, nor to be merciful. She never was. Not with her tongue, not with her wagers, and certainly not with—well.
Jasper Deverell would not admit to a wounded heart. His pride had suffered a bruise, certainly, but he was convinced that he was not a man to surrender his heart to anyone. No, he had assured himself of that only this morning, whilst enduring the pieties of Lady Malverne’s parish church and fixing his attention upon the sermon with more severity than the text deserved.
His proposal had been no romantic folly, but a matter of plain logic. Entirely practical. He enjoyed Miss Tolliver’s company—greatly—and if Langley meant to sever that company unless Jasper married her, then marriage was the obvious solution. Obvious. Sensible. Barely romantic at all.
If Miss Tolliver must marry—and she must, for families were forever troublesome in such matters—then better it be to himthan to some other dull fellow. He could give her liberty, fortune, amusement, and a name sturdy enough to withstand scandal. A reasonable arrangement, with nothing tender in it whatsoever.
At least, that was what Jasper Deverell told himself, and if he repeated it often enough, perhaps even he might begin to believe it.
Miss Tolliver had taken up her stance across the table with the air of a duellist preparing for pistols at dawn—indeed, he was brought back to the moment of seeing her in trousers at a certain morning duel.
She bent over the table and struck. The balls skimmed across the baize with a boldness that drew laughter from the men.
“Bravo, Miss Tolliver,” Gainsford declared. “I would sooner stake my fortune at cards than play against you for my dinner.”
“You would go hungry either way, my lord,” she returned, missing her next stroke by a hair.
Jasper stepped in, struck cleanly, and pocketed a ball to approving murmurs. He caught her eye as he straightened.
“Fortune favours you, sir,” she said.
“I prefer not to leave matters to fortune.”
The game tightened, ball for ball, until the company leant forward at every stroke; even the duke tucked a hand under his chin in interest. Lottie struck with reckless brilliance, the balls scattering like startled birds; Jasper answered with maddening calm, each shot slipping neatly into the pocket.
When her final ball clipped the edge of the pocket and refused to fall, Gainsford groaned as though personally bereaved.
Jasper finished the game with a clean, quiet shot.
“Victory to Deverell!” Gainsford cried. “By heaven, man, how many wives shall you claim now? A dozen? A score? You must own yourself beaten, Miss Tolliver!”
Lottie straightened, tapping her cue against the floor with a tight smile. “Then I must congratulate Mr Deverell. England’sunmarried ladies may breathe easy, for the good sir is free to establish his harem at once.”
The room erupted in laughter again, but Jasper merely inclined his head. “Ah, but I have no wish for a harem, Miss Tolliver. One wife would be quite enough for any gentleman of sense.”
“Indeed,” she countered. “And I quite pity her. To be governed by a man so convinced of his own sense would be dreadful indeed.”
“Governed? You mistake me, Miss Tolliver. I have it on good knowledge that wives are formidable creatures. Terrifying in their wisdom and relentless in their opinions. A husband’s only hope is to survive them.”
Laughter rippled through the room. Gainsford elbowed his cousin. “Hear that, Morleigh? Survival, he says! You might take notes.”
