Page 13 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“I don’t imagine she cares what you think,” the man answered, which only served to irritate Peter. He knew she had no regard for his thoughts, but why dress to such disadvantage?

“Something must have happened,” he deduced. “Something damaging that made her want to hide herself away. And don’t try to tell me it was that insult she thinks I gave her. That’s a distraction from the real problem.” The idea of someone hurting her made him want to growl again.

“Excellent.” Ash clapped him on the shoulder. “Then we’ll see whom the lady wants. I’d thought there’d be no contest between your wealth and my lack thereof. Our titles are relatively equal, thank heaven, but I see now that it won’t be about money.”

“What will it be about?”

Ash grinned. “That’s simple. Who’s the better man?”

*

Mari smiled at Lady Eleanor, pleased to have a willing ear to share her tale of grievance. “It all began at Lady Farbridge’s ball six years ago. It was my first Season, and my sister Josephine and I were so excited to go. You know how it is with young girls. Everything is so special. It was only my third ball, and I was still dazzled. Jo was hardly any better, though she’d been out longer than I.”

“I missed that entire Season,” Eleanor mused. “I was traveling with my father, and we couldn’t get back in time.”

Mari nodded. “I suppose it was a Season like every other, so you didn’t miss much. But I was young and had never done anything so thrilling.” Funny how, in all her private reliving, she’d never thought of how little she’d understood. Everything had seemed so important. The number of people at the balls, the ladies in their gowns, the dandies in their lace, and the Corinthians in their shiny boots. She’d been devastated to be suddenly cast out from it.

“Well?” Eleanor prompted. “What happened?”

“I was wearing a gown I adored. Pale lavender with tiny seed pearls along the bodice and in my hair. Understated but elegant.”

“I approve.”

Of course she would. Eleanor’s style had always been refined.

“My sister had to have color. The gown was modest, but the color bold. Russet, almost orange.”

“I’ve never met your sister. Did it suit her coloring?”

“Close enough, though the ruffles were not her best choice.”

The two women shuddered.

“We began to talk as one does before the dancing. Our cards weren’t full by any means.”

“You are Welsh,” Eleanor hedged.

“And new money. I know. To my mind, it was perfect. Everything was perfect.”

Eleanor leaned forward. “Get to the important part.”

“I wanted some punch. It was dreadfully hot in the room. Sally and I—she’s Mrs. Clarkin now—headed for the bowl, but it was such a crush that we were constantly stopping. And that’s when I heard it. Lord Whitly was speaking to Mr. Fitzhugh.”

Eleanor’s face pinched. “He’s a bounder, that Fitzhugh. Fortune hunter is the kindest thing I can say about him.”

Mari looked down at her hands. “Yes, and a terrible gossip, which made everything worse.”

“What were they saying?”

“I stopped, you see, because I heard them say my name. Mr. Fitzhugh was asking advice. He intended to have a go—his words—at my sister or me and wanted to know who was the better catch.”

Eleanor sighed. “Both of you were far too good for him.”

“Yes, but I didn’t know that. Whitly’s answer destroyed me.” She took a deep breath. “He asked whyever would Fitzhugh want either one of us? The elder was wild and the younger wayward.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened, and her lips formed a perfect O of surprise. “So that is how you came by your names.”

“Yes,” she said bitterly. “From that moment on, everything we did, from the most innocent flirtation to the cut and color of our gowns was scrutinized and used as proof of our inappropriateness.”