Page 14 of The Lady Knows Best

“Yet you seem determined to try.”

“Oh, Miss Busy B.” He laughed. “Well, at least you’re going into the task with both eyes open.”

“And if I refuse?”

His answer, though oblique, was chillingly clear: “I suspect your good name means something to you, or you wouldn’t trouble to shield it from your readers.”

It would mean the end of her association with the Magazine for Misses, the loss of friendships she’d looked forward to developing, the freedoms she’d hoped to enjoy. . . .

Fists balled at her side, she began to pace along the balcony’s edge. The moon had painted the garden below in a chiaroscuro of light and shadow that promised innumerable, though temporary, hiding places. Escape would require a treacherous vault and probably cost her a torn dress and twisted ankle, but at least it would give her a little time—time to gather her thoughts, time to plan a course of action.

“How exactly am I to manage to find you a bride, when every woman on this island knows about your ridiculous wager?”

“I fear you may have an exaggerated notion of your little magazine’s circulation,” he said, a sardonic smile twitching at his lips. Then he shrugged. “Figure something out. You’re meant to be the clever one. ‘Trust Miss Busy B. for good advice,’ and all that.”

All at once, Miss Grey’s tear-stained face rose in her memory.

Such wretched advice . . .

Daphne’s skirts whipped tight to her legs as she spun to face him. “I—perhaps I could use my column to explain. Say I answered too hastily and encourage Aggrieved in Grosvenor Square to reconsider.”

“In the next issue of the magazine?”

Relieved, she nodded. “Yes, exactly.” She despised the very thought of it, but if Miss Grey really did regret her decision . . .

“Haven’t got a month,” he replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “I need to be wed by end of June to win my bet.”

Not even three weeks away. In such a short amount of time, she couldn’t possibly manage to fix the mess she—he—had made.

“But it wouldn’t have to be Miss Grey,” he offered. “Any accomplished young lady of good family, with an education and upbringing suitable to the duties of a viscountess, will do.”

“Oh, is that all?”

He lifted one shoulder and managed to look almost sheepish.

“Don’t you care about affection? Or—or passion?” She had to push the last word past her lips, barely a whisper.

He laughed. “Fortunately for you, love is not one of the terms and conditions of the wager.”

She thought of the looks she’d seen in her elder siblings’ eyes on their wedding days and so frequently since, the glances still exchanged between her parents. She knew, of course, that not every marriage was a love match. But what could cause someone to be willing to wave away even the possibility, as if it were a matter of complete indifference . . . ?

No. She would not pity Lord Deveraux. Why, if anyone deserved her pity, it was his future bride.

“So, it’s really quite simple,” he said, stepping close enough to grasp the railing beside her, effectively blocking her from returning to the ballroom. “All you must do is find me a suitable wife in time.”

She had to swallow hard before she could speak. “Or you’ll expose me.”

“Cheer up,” he urged, leaning forward to speak once more into her ear. “You might find you quite enjoy being ruined.”

A shiver passed through her, and to her eternal shame, it was not entirely the product of anger. Or fear.

In spite of everything, there was still something thrilling about hearing those words from Lord Deveraux’s lips.

. . . a man who looks like that . . .

. . . a man who kisses like that ...

She drew back enough to glance from his face to his hand on the railing and back again. “It would seem I’m caught between a rake and a hard place.”