Page 102 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

He thought to see her heartbreak ease. Wasn’t that what all women wanted? Sure knowledge that their future was safe? That they had a man who cherished them? But her expression did not settle. It crumpled into dismay, while tears pooled and dropped, one by one, down her cheeks.

He drew back, confused. “Mari—” he began, but she shook her head, pulling away from his touch.

“I don’t love you,” she whispered. And lest he think she was lying, the pure torment in her expression told him the truth. “I love what you want to accomplish. I love that I could help you. But now I don’t even know who you are. Oh God, another fortune hunter!” she cried.

“Mari—”

She broke away, shoving to her feet in a clumsy display. Her sobs choked her, and she gasped even as she ran from him. He tried to catch her. He gripped her skirt as she stumbled, but she tugged hard, and the fabric ripped. He could not accost the woman. Not here on the floor of her father’s library. He could not grab her and drag her to his rooms where he could hold her until she grew calm enough to converse.

So he let her go, though his left hand was reaching for her even as the right released her gown.

“Mari, wait!” he repeated, but she was gone, and two footmen were staring in at him, their eyes wide and their mouths agape.

“Well, that’s a damned mess,” Mr. Powel said behind him.

Yes, it was. Peter pushed to his feet and dusted off his clothing. What more could he do, with the footmen gaping and her parents staring? He was the heir to an earldom, for God’s sake. How dare two well-heeled cits look at him like he was a beggar in rags.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Powel folded her hands together in her lap. “Lord Whitly, I do not understand what has occurred this night, nor do I approve.”

And now he would have to make apologies, damn it, to the mother with pursed lips and tight fists.

“Your daughter does not know her own mind,” he said curtly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “Mari has always known her own mind. It’s all the other things she muddles up.”

His gaze jerked to her face, wondering if there was meaning in there, but he was too tired to understand it. And he kept thinking that he heard Mari. A footstep on the stairs. A thump in the room above them. Something that would tell him what she was doing. Was she calming enough to think? Was she cursing his name? Did she regret how he’d touched her last night? It distracted him and left his head thick.

“Lord Whitly!” Mrs. Powel’s voice cut through his thoughts. He blinked and refocused, startled to realize that he’d been looking out the doorway.

“Lady Illston’s ball is in two nights. No matter what else happens, Mari will not miss that night. She has spent weeks training that bird, and even in a temper, she will not cry off your wager. I suggest you resolve your difficulties.” She gestured impatiently to the rolled map of London. “Whatever it is, see it done. And then think hard what you will say to her in two nights. I will be sure that she attends.”

He looked at her, his mind churning slowly. Resolve a criminal parent. Put a thieving ring in gaol. And then find a way to woo the woman of his heart, when a month of steady courtship had yielded nothing but…

But one night when she might have conceived his child.

It was a measure of his desperation that he wanted that as a way to force her hand. “I never thought I would have to work so hard for the woman of my choosing,” he mused absently.

Mr. Powel snorted. “Not for those timid English chits. But you picked a Welsh girl with fire in her. Of course she’ll lead you a merry dance.”

Peter gathered the pieces of his thoughts. “You’ll still consider my hand for her? The marriage contract will be—”

“I’ll set it out fairly for you. Had one drafted yesterday.” He walked around his desk and pulled a stack of papers out of his top drawer. “I already knew you hadn’t much padding in your pocket, though I don’t like what I’ve learned about your father.”

Neither did Peter, but that was a problem left for later in the day. “I’ll keep her safe from the earl.”

Mrs. Powel shook her head. “But not the scandal. You could never keep the scandal quiet.”

No, he couldn’t. But in this, Mr. Powel came to his rescue. “Tut tut. Wagging tongues only make a difference if you haven’t the money. You’ve a good head. If you deal honestly with me, I’ll see your coffers recover. But you have to handle your father first.” His eyes narrowed. “Will you need men for tomorrow night?”

Peter shook his head. He’d figured that out while talking with Tie. “I’ll see to my father’s affairs.”

“I’ll keep Tie here and talking with no one.” He passed over the draft of the marriage contract.

“Thank you, sir,” Peter answered. Then he bowed to Mrs. Powel. “Madam.”

“My lord,” she returned, giving him her hand.

He finished the leave-taking, wondering how it was that he—the son of an earl—was grateful that two cits of heretofore questionable reputation could be so polite to him. They were treating him gently when he had lied about his pockets and seduced their daughter after involving her in a tavern brawl.