Page 49 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

Had her father just suggested she become loose? She wanted to admonish him, but couldn’t manage it. Not with him smiling so fondly at her.

Lord Whitly’s mood, however, was something else entirely. She turned to him with a stern glare. “When I need advice on my toilette, I shall be sure to ask someone else.”

He huffed out a breath. “What happened, Miss Powel? Why would you do this to yourself? A beige dress? The entire thing makes me sad.”

She felt her mouth gape open. What was the polite response to so outrageous a statement? I did it because this is the only way to get married? Except she wasn’t married. I did it because the gossips delight in hurting me whenever I wear something interesting? Very true, but he wouldn’t understand the way women sniped at each other.

Before she could frame a response, he rubbed a hand over his face. “Damn, I’ve become maudlin.” He glared at the bangla. “That’s a good drink, but stronger than I thought.”

Obviously. What sane gentleman picked the pins out of a woman’s hair? “What are you doing here, Lord Whitly?”

Her father’s head snapped up. “You said she was expecting you!”

Lord Whitly grimaced. “She ought to be. I can’t help it if she forgot.”

Mari dropped her hands onto her hips. “I have not forgotten anything.”

Her father groaned. “He said you were to go walking in Hyde Park today. Because you lost some wager about lemonade. Really, Mari, I thought you knew that ladies don’t make wagers.”

She opened her mouth to give a blistering retort—drunken father or not—when she realized he was right. She had wagered and lost. A walk in Hyde Park had been the forfeit.

Meanwhile, the blighter in question grinned at her father. “See? Can’t help it if she forgets.”

“Did you really forget?” her father pressed. “You? The one with the perfect schedule in her head?” He looked at Lord Whitly. “Amazing mind, my gel. Remembers everything.”

She huffed. “It’s been a difficult day. I rose too early.”

“And fell off your horse,” her father said. “Your mother told me.”

Mari had no response to that, so she turned to Lord Whitly and tried to be gracious. “I can see that you’re not quite yourself right now. We should delay our walk.” Maybe until after she brought Mr. Camden up to scratch.

“I am perfectly well, thank you,” he said with a smooth bow punctuated with a flourish that had gone out of style two hundred years earlier. “I merely await your convenience.” Then he cast her a mischievous look. “Perhaps you wish to change your gown?”

“You won’t like anything else I own either,” she muttered. Then she tried to think things through logically. She wished to learn what Lord Whitly and her father had discussed. She wanted to know more about his secrets too, and any number of things that had kept her wondering through the night. What better time to stroll with him than when he was in his cups?

“Very well, Lord Whitly, it would be my pleasure to walk with you.”

“Excellent!” Then he offered her his arm. She took it gingerly, setting her fingertips on his sleeve, but then he dropped his other hand atop hers. Large and all encompassing. Just a forearm below and his palm above. Nothing exciting about that. Except she was excited by it. She marveled at his easy strength and the hard bulge to his bicep. He was a powerfully built man. And he was looking at her as if he wanted to eat her.

She ought to be frightened. She told herself to be on her guard. Instead, she flushed and looked away, both embarrassed and flattered. They started to walk out of the room, but before they could leave, her father called out.

“You really think stability in the carriage is the wrong choice?”

Lord Whitly turned back, Mari with him. “I think that carriages in India overturn from trying to outrun bandits on bad roads. If you want to transport your silk from the interior up through Turkey, you need to design a carriage with a protected seat for a sharpshooter.”

“Have to find a reliable sharpshooter first. Half of them are in league with the bandits.”

“Plenty of men coming out of the military, some with great skills. My brother would know of a few.”

Her father arched a brow. “But would he recommend me to them?”

Lord Whitly smiled. “He would if I asked.”

“Hmmm. I’ll think on it.” Then he plopped his chin on his fist and stared darkly into his empty cup of bangla.

Lord Whitly waited a moment, obviously unsure what that meant. Mari couldn’t blame him. Her father’s moods were unpredictable. She squeezed his arm, trying not to get a surreptitious thrill at the motion.

“He’ll be like that for an hour or more. It’s what he loves to do best after a good bout of bangla.”