Page 12 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

Ash’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve always been uncommonly good at that.”

Peter shrugged. If he had an unusual talent, it was the ability to see exactly what a person needed most. It was an internal knowing. A stupid parlor trick he’d played with as a boy, but in India, the talent had been refined to a sharp blade.

“What happened?” Ash pressed again. “Exactly.”

Peter looked back at his friend. “The same thing that happened to you, exactly. We survived the best way we could.”

Ash accepted that in his usual manner. He frowned and glared. A dark expression that had no effect on Peter. Or perhaps it did because he finally relented.

“I came home to end all that. No more violence. No more nonsense. Just good brandy, hearty beef stew, and an English rose in my bed.”

“She’s Welsh.”

“Near enough.”

“And she doesn’t like you.” Ash chuckled then. A slow roll of sound that worried Peter more than all the man’s glowers and frowns.

“What’s so funny?”

“You really don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“Just how powerfully that woman despises you.”

He hadn’t the foggiest. “Whatever did I do?”

His friend’s grin grew wider. “I don’t think I’m going to suspend my pursuit of the wealthy Miss Powel.”

“Just a minute—”

“But I’m not going to court her either.”

This time Peter heard his growl. Bloody hell, when had he started making that noise? “What do you intend, then?” His voice was hard and low.

“I’m going to stand as her friend. As you blunder your way about her heart, I will offer her a safe shoulder to cry on.”

“She won’t cry. She’ll beat me about the ears with her reticule.”

Ash snorted. “Perhaps six years ago, but you’ve been gone a while, and the situation has changed.”

Yes, he’d noticed that. The vibrant, powerful woman he remembered now wore boring dresses and severe hair. “Who has been advising her? They’re destroying everything good about her looks.”

His friend waved a negligent hand. “Lady Eleanor has taken an interest.”

Peter turned forcefully toward his friend. “Eleanor’s never been vicious, and she has excellent taste. Why would she dress Miss Powel like a sack of wet oatmeal?”

“That’s overstating the case.”

Peter arched a brow.

His friend shrugged. “Her clothes are oatmeal, but she’s nothing like that.”

“I know she’s not!” Peter huffed. “What happened to her flash?”

Ash’s expression turned quizzical. “She has always appeared as you see her now. At least for the last few years.”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t like it.”