Page 30 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

She smiled at him, her expression the warmest he had ever received from her. “It occurs to me that you have also won our other wager.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” she said ruefully. “No one is likely to discuss our display by the lemonade now.”

He’d forgotten about the lemonade. Goodness, he was on quite the winning streak with her. Too bad the main prize was still well out of reach.

“My lord?” she asked as she settled into position in his arms.

“Yes?”

“You looked quite serious there for a moment.”

“I’m always serious,” he said, his voice grave, “when I have a beautiful woman in my arms.”

Then he swept her into her very first waltz.

Chapter Seven

Mari meant to resist him. After all, he’d never actually asked if he could dance with her. He’d simply scrawled his name on her card and then proceeded to create this whole charade around it. And yet she never found the words.

Instead, she felt his fingers intertwine with hers. He had large hands, but as her own fingers were long, they matched quite well. His other hand slid around her waist and sent delightful shivers down her spine. Never had she felt such awareness of a man, of his legs so near, of his eyes as he gazed at her.

She ought to chastise him for taking liberties, but she let him draw her closer. His arm slid higher to wrap around her back, which allowed his forearm to press ever so lightly into her shoulder. She felt surrounded by him, but not oppressively so. Then he began to move.

She didn’t have to think about matching his steps. The rhythm of the music was steady, and his body was perfectly in tune with hers. He guided her with the slightest pressure as if they were one body. She breathed his air, he held her everywhere, and together they flew.

Heaven.

She could have danced like that for hours. She wanted to, but something this magical couldn’t last long. Their steps slowed and eventually stopped. She stood in his arms, her head dizzy from the dance and her body flushed with excitement. Champagne giddiness, she thought. As if there were bubbles of laughter in her blood and brain. Lord, if he weren’t holding her, she might float away.

“You dance wonderfully, Miss Powel,” he said, his voice thick.

“I’ve never enjoyed anything more,” she said. No, no! She wasn’t supposed to sound so breathy or feel tingles. It was not how a proper lady felt.

She could hear titters around them. Spiteful women whispering behind their fans. She knew what they were saying. Hadn’t she been hearing it for the last six years?

Wayward Welsh.

“You have ruined me again,” she said, startled to hear so much defeat in her voice. She wasn’t even angry. It was what the man did.

She dropped her arms, and he let her go, raising his arm to escort her back to the now-empty seats for the dowagers.

“I think I shall go home,” she said. She hadn’t the stomach to face the spiteful tabbies over supper. Not when she was so busy damning herself.

How could she let him sweep her good sense away? It wasn’t just the dance, though that was reason enough. But add in the wager with the dowagers and the way he’d commanded a waltz, and she felt mortified. It was an ill-bred spectacle, and she had allowed it.

“You cannot leave,” inserted Lord Rimbury as he sauntered up to her side. “That’ll make them talk all the more.” He looked at Lord Whitly. “You should be the one to depart.”

Whitly frowned. “Why would I allow gossip to dictate to me one way or the other?”

Did he understand nothing? “You’re a wealthy man who will one day inherit an earldom,” she said. “Of course you wouldn’t allow gossip to deter you.”

“Exactly.” He folded his arms across his chest, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

“But you aren’t the only one being affected,” added Lord Rimbury.

Lord Whitly opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out. His brows lowered in a dark glower, and his gaze hopped between his friend and Mari. “It is only talk. Why do you let it hurt you?”