Page 103 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

But that was a thought for another time. First he had to find Ash and the constable, capture the thieves, and teach a damned parakeet something else to say. Something that wasn’t going to get him kicked in the teeth in front of the entire ton. He caught a hackney and settled into it wearily. Then his gaze fell on Mr. Powel’s document. He had no time to study the thing now. Mari’s dowry was the smallest of his concerns, and in truth, he would take her without one, though how he would support her was another question.

And then he began to read.

Five minutes later, he was laughing hard enough to make his sides hurt. It wasn’t funny. Nothing about this day was funny, but it was either that or sob like a tiny boy in leading strings. Because he finally understood just how deep he had fallen into disaster.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Mari always cried in private. It was a weakness of hers that she could never manage the tragic tears of so many stage heroines. A wilting facade or an elegant expression of dismay were beyond her.

No, when she cried, it was in a gasping, retching, oozing display. She had to muffle her voice in a pillow or alert the entire neighborhood. She had to cover that pillow with a rag to sop up the mess. And she had to wail so completely that when her body finally gave up the grief, she was head-sore and nauseated for at least a day afterward.

So she was upstairs, sobbing in a disgusting display, while the same litany of sentences whirled through her brain.

1. Lord Whitly was a fortune hunter, and she would marry no such man.

2. Peter was a liar and a fraud, and she would marry no such man.

3. He was a tender lover, who had shown her such wonderful things, and that was after her adventure by the docks. In a few short weeks, he had expanded her world a thousandfold, and the idea that she would not marry him left her gasping and retching against her pillow.

4. She might marry a man—even a fortune hunter—if she loved him. But she did not love him.

Then she’d sob again before the litany restarted. She tried to distract herself. She tried to break the endless spin of statements with questions. Why didn’t she love him? Why, after all they had done, didn’t she worship the ground he walked upon? Why did her heart not pound the word “love” a thousand times whenever she thought of him?

If she knew in her soul that he was the only man for her, then she could forgive the lie about his money. She could convince herself not to care that he only wanted her dowry. She could do all those things if only she could think of him and feel that wave of adoration that women had for their true love.

But what she felt now was anger, wretchedness, and of course, a sense of burning, hateful betrayal. He had lied to her. And he had crept into her house as a thief to steal things.

“I hate him,” she said into her pillow. “I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.”

Except that wasn’t true. She didn’t know how she felt about him. Which brought her back to the first statement again. Lord Whitly was a fortune hunter, and she would marry no such man.

So the cycle repeated until exhaustion claimed her and she slept.

She woke hours later. One glance outside told her it was late evening. Had she slept the day through? What of her calls and the ball tonight? What of a visit to Lady Eleanor to scream out her frustration? But she’d slept the day through. She might manage one event if she hurried, but she had no desire to be seen tonight, much less pursue another husband candidate. Not with her eyes burning and her mouth foul. Best to stay home and handle her correspondence. Or rewrite her lists. Or read a book.

Or stare into the coals and cry some more. Fat tears leaked silently down her cheeks.

Sometime around eight, Mama came to visit. She brought Mari a plate of fruit and cheese. She talked about how boring tonight’s soiree would be and that Mari was smart to miss it. They didn’t speak of Lord Whitly, and for that, Mari was grateful. Instead, her mother picked up her rewritten requirements for a husband and shook her head.

“No fortune hunter” was underlined this time and written in all capital letters. Mama pursed her lips, then set the page back down.

“Get some rest, darling,” she said as she patted Mari’s hand. “Perhaps you will think more clearly in the morning.”

“I’m already thinking clearly,” she said, though she winced at the peevish note in her voice. “That’s why I wrote out the list again.”

“Oh, yes,” her mother said dryly. “Isn’t it lovely how everything in life can be boiled down to a number in a column or an ordered list of requirements?”

Mari didn’t bother arguing. Her mother might be able to wander through life without the doubts that plagued Mari. Mama knew Papa was her true love. Her flexibility and his business brilliance made them a perfect pair. Together, they managed every happenstance.

But Mari was weaker. Without black-and-white letters on a page, a steady list of what was important and what was not, she found herself wandering off into the wilds of confusion. She might, for example, end up in a bar fight or making love in a liar’s bed. These lists were her touchstone, and she would not abandon them now, when she felt most at sea.

Her mother watched her face closely, clearly waiting for something. But in the end, she shook her head. “You are so much like your father.”

“You love my father,” Mari returned, the words a smidge too defensive.

“I do indeed,” Mama said as she pressed a kiss to Mari’s forehead. “And I love you, my dear. I just wish that some part of you would look to your heart instead of your head.”

“My heart has ever steered me wrong.”