Page 2 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

Trapped. The man had spoken to them. Worse, he was bowing his greeting.

“Good day ladies,” he said.

Stay calm, she told herself, but it was no good. Six years of bitter resentment rose in her gorge. Then her arms gave out, and she dropped Greenie’s cage back on the ground. The creature squawked in protest while Mari pretended to look for a treat in her reticule. If she didn’t look at the man, maybe she could keep a civil tongue.

“Miss Powel, you are more lovely than is possible.”

Good God, did he want to converse with her? Why? Six years she’d been free of him, and now he wanted to speak?

She would be excruciatingly polite. It was the only way to manage the situation. Best say something innocuous. “That’s a logical incongruity. I cannot be more lovely than possible. If I am it, it is possible”

“Well, my goodness,” Lady Illston gasped, and no wonder. Despite her best intentions, Mari was being rude. Fortunately, the jackanapes was laughing with good humor.

“Always so clever. What a delight to see you again.” He extended his hand for hers, and she had to give it to him. Anything else would risk gossip she could not afford.

She extended the tips of her fingers for him to kiss, then dropped into a stiff curtsy.

“Lord Whitly,” she ground out. “I thought you were in India.” Or hell, which was what he deserved.

“Just returned. One cannot remain forever in a foreign land. Eventually a man’s thoughts return to his native country and the idea of settling down.”

Her shocked gaze jumped to his. He’d just announced that he was on the prowl for a wife. Whyever would he tell her that? After he’d destroyed her chances of finding a husband five years ago?

Lady Illston leaped upon his statement. “What a coincidence! I’m having a ball in a few weeks. Plenty of lovely young ladies there. All of them delightful.”

“Capital,” he said as he turned his beaming smile on Lady Illston.

“Winner! Winner!” agreed the parakeet.

Then he looked at her. The sun was full on his face, highlighting the ruggedness of his square jaw and large frame. His light brown hair had turned more gold in India, and its soft curls made him a dashing figure. Broad shoulders, big hands, and muscles everywhere, exquisitely revealed by perfectly tailored attire. Handsome, rich, and eligible.

And a total ass.

“And you, Miss Powel? Will you be at the ball?”

“Not if you’re there.”

She clapped a hand to her mouth, horrified that she’d spoken her true thoughts aloud. She hadn’t done that in five years. Five long years of watching her tongue, never stepping an inch out of place, of simpering, smiling, and carrying fans, not to mention shawls and birds—all of it gone in a second. She’d said the words that leaped to mind, and everyone about her gasped.

Everyone, that is, except Lord Whitly, who arched his brows in every semblance of shock. “Miss Powel, have I offended you in some way?”

Did he know nothing? She looked about her at the growing crowd. It wasn’t just Lady Illston and the Dim pair. They now had four other parties joining them. And still her dratted tongue kept wagging. “Five, nay, six years ago, my lord, you did indeed offend me. Most grievously.”

“Six years?” Dim #12 sputtered.

“But that’s ancient history,” agreed Dim #13.

“You labeled me the Wayward Welsh, though I didn’t deserve the name. And what you did to my sister was worse.”

He frowned. “Your sister? Oh, the Wild Welsh. I’d heard she’d married. Most happily.”

Yes, Josephine had married and was deliriously happy, but that was only after five years of agony, fighting the epithet this man had given her. “Nevertheless, that doesn’t mitigate your crime.”

“Crime!” Lady Illston gasped, and she was echoed by the Dims plus the Misses Montgomery and their escorts. Meanwhile, Lord Whitly was defusing the situation with deep chuckles.

“I beg to differ, Miss Powel. All’s well that ends well, and all that.”

“Winner! Winner!” the parakeet squawked.