Page 34 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“You surprise me,” she admitted. He seemed a winner in everything. She’d assumed he and his family were all thick as thieves.

He looked away. “I prefer to control how I communicate with my father. In a cardroom at a come-out ball was not a good location.”

“Because you’d just made a spectacle with the dowagers? And waltzed with a Welsh chit?” She counted herself heroic for not adding the word “wayward.”

He shrugged. “I’m sure he’ll call me to account for that.”

“I wish to call you to account for that.” When he gave her a quizzical look, she amended her statement. “I wish to call in your forfeit. You are to tell me a secret.”

He turned their horses down another lane. “I believe I just did.”

Had he? Oh yes, that his relationship with his father was seriously strained. “But that is not the secret I want.”

He flashed her a delighted grin. “That wasn’t part of the forfeit.”

She pulled back as if shocked. “Surely you wish to give a good account of yourself. A paltry forfeit does not reflect well upon you. Not upon the winner, winner.” She said those last two words as Greenie might, high and with a parakeet’s chirp.

“You count my strained paternal relationship as paltry information?”

“I do.” She leaned forward. “I wish to know something a great deal more important than that.”

“I cannot imagine what that could be. I—”

“Why are you in Society if you have such distaste for it?” She spoke impetuously, trampling over his words. He had such ability to distract her that she feared losing track of it altogether. Why was he here? Why did he accost her in Hyde Park that first day? Why did he seek her out at last night’s ball?

But the more questions crowded in her mind, the more his expression made her doubt her own sanity. Or his. Because far from quietly considering her request, he stared at her in stunned surprise.

In the end, she had to prompt him. “My lord?”

“Truly, Miss Powel, I cannot guess whether I am especially bad at this or if you are being willfully obtuse.”

“If I am obtuse, my lord, I assure you it is not willful.”

“Then perhaps I have lost all ability in English Society.”

What could she say to that? She was struggling for a response when a pair of Dims galloped past while hooting in a drunken manner. Her horse shied, her seating slipped, and it was all she could do to stay atop her mare. Fortunately, Lord Whitly was large enough—and quick enough—to grab her bridle, otherwise she would have gone on her own wild run.

It took a moment to quiet her mount and another few for her heart to settle. And all the while, he stood there, his body flexed as he held her horse.

“Are you steady, Miss Powel?” he finally asked.

“Y-yes,” she said. “I’m afraid I am out of practice.”

“That was not your fault. Those young bucks should be whipped.” His gaze scanned her quickly. “You are sure?”

“I didn’t fall. I was merely startled.”

Silence.

And then he spoke, his words loud and clear. “Miss Powel, I left for India with one purpose in mind. Certainly, I wanted money and fame, but uppermost in my thoughts was one thing: I wished for your regard.”

He paused, his gaze skittering away, and no wonder. To say such a thing…

“Sir, if this is some sort of tease, then it is in very poor taste.”

“Of course it’s not a tease,” he snapped, his brows drawing down. “You named me useless, and I realized you were right.”

“B-but… I…” She snapped her mouth shut. For six years, he’d been the man who had destroyed her out of casual disregard. To hear that he’d left the country because of her was like saying the moon took a stroll down the street because she’d wished it. He was too large and powerful a man to be swayed by her opinion.