Page 83 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

He rubbed his hand through his hair, the gesture distracted. “I’m looking, Mari. So far, I haven’t found anything.”

She pressed a palm to his chest, loving the way her hand was so small against his muscle. “But you feel it. You know something’s wrong.”

He gripped her fingers and pulled them to his lips. Nothing more, he just held her still.

“Peter?”

“I can only think of you right now. The rest is…” He shook his head. “Too much.”

She smiled. That was what she wanted to hear. Well, not really, she admonished herself. She’d come here to find out his secrets. But now that she was here, she was more interested in his touch, in his kiss, in all those wonderful wayward things he’d been showing her.

She stepped closer and lifted her face to his. She gently pulled her hand—and his—aside, so nothing would stop this kiss.

“If we start,” he said, his voice thick, “I will not be able to stop. And then you will never know what I meant to tell you this night.”

That wouldn’t do. “So tell me,” she said as she boldly pressed her body against his.

He swallowed, and even in the muted candlelight, she could see that his eyes burned over her face. He wanted her as fervently as she wanted him. It was a heady thing, this desire. Very soon, she would give in to it.

“I was beaten in India,” he rasped. “Attacked, imprisoned, and nearly killed thirty-seven times. It was so common that it became routine.”

She pulled back, blinking the haze from her eyes. She repeated his words in her mind, trying to sort them out. “You were jailed?” That wasn’t what she meant to ask. It was merely the first words that reverberated in her thoughts.

“Often. But it is not like gaol here. It was a way of making me stay put for a time. Not for crimes.” Then he shrugged. “Unless it was for a crime. But I usually didn’t get caught.”

She shied a step backward. He didn’t stop her, but she knew he watched her—taut and anxious—to see her reactions. He was being dramatic, she supposed. She recognized the ploy from her sister’s antics. He was saying things as boldly as possible while watching to see if she’d run. It was a way of getting her truest—worst—reactions before moderating his tale with facts.

But she’d played that game too often with Josephine for her to fall for it now. She settled neatly into the chair he had cleared, then folded her hands to keep from reaching for him. She wanted to be clearheaded while they talked. Or at least less distracted.

“Start from the beginning, please.”

He nodded. It took him a moment to clear another chair and sit across from her. And though she watched his eyes, she was very aware of his hands as they fidgeted at his sides. And that his shoulders started out tall but slowly slumped as he leaned on his elbows. And that his eyes seemed to look at something very far away.

“I left for India because you were right. I was wasting away doing nothing but arguing with my father. A man can only rebel against his pater for so long before he goes mad. And I was three-quarters gone by the time we danced and you told me exactly what a useless thing I had become.”

“I shouldn’t have spoken like that,” she said, guilt a sharp spike in her chest.

His gaze cut to hers. “We started with plain speaking, Mari. Do not run from it now.”

He was right. She had maneuvered and manipulated to get to this moment. She should not have interrupted. She reached forward and touched his hand where he gripped his knee. Gently, she spread her fingers and covered what she could of his hand. “I’m sorry. Please, I want to hear it all.”

He nodded and started his tale.

Chapter Twenty

Peter had not allowed himself to think about India. His time there was over. He had returned to England. But the struggle to speak now told him that the past was still large and ugly in his mind.

“I wish I could say I went to India to become a man. Mostly, I left in search of change. I was sick to death of who I was and needed to become something else. Except the moment I landed in India, I fought every day to be as lazy and indolent as I’d ever been.” He shrugged. “Fortunately, my immediate superior at the Company did not suffer fools gladly.”

“What did you do for them?”

Her voice was quiet, and her hand a warm balm over his. The two grounded him as nothing else. Whenever his memories threatened to bury him in that wild and exotic land, she kept him firmly anchored in Mother England and all the blessings of home.

“I collected taxes. In many ways, England occupied India as surely as it colonized the Americas. Decades ago, we invaded, supported our position with guns, and declared ourselves in charge. The maharajas bought peace by promising us taxes and then daring us to come get them.”

She shifted uncomfortably at his assessment, but when he looked at her, he saw she was simply thinking. “Papa has often said that India is a heathen place that needs our civilizing hand.”

He arched a brow, challenging her to speak her true thoughts. She had spent many years of her childhood there, and he wanted to know her opinion.