Page 124 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

He looked at her, his expression guarded.

“I love you,” she said. “I have loved you for six years and was only angry before because I thought you’d spurned me. I thought you the cause of my ills when the truth was that I did not trust my own heart. I love you, Peter. It would be my greatest delight to marry you.”

He searched her face, not trusting her words. He lowered his voice and whispered to her. “Mari, think. I am disgraced.”

“No, Peter, you are in love.”

“Well, of course, but—”

“And Society adores nothing more than a great love story.” She leaned forward. “I believe I owe you a kiss.”

She kissed him. They kissed, in full view of all the ton. And when she thought to pull away, he pulled her close and lifted her up in his arms while everyone cheered.

With one kiss—and an obvious love story—the dowagers were touched. As one, they declared it an excellent match. Not to be outdone, the patronesses of Almack’s agreed, adding that it was a well-done wager and all perfectly respectable. And besides, what else could be expected from the Wayward Welsh?

The men would take longer to come around, but they would not go so firmly against the ladies’ opinion. And this, of course, was exactly what Prinny had been waiting for: a clear indication of which way England’s powerful would sway on matters. Which meant Sommerfield was safe. Peter would have a scandal attached to his name, probably forever, but with the addition of Mari’s dowry, his financials would recover. It was all perfect. In fact, they became so abruptly popular that Lady Illston asked them to open the ball with the first dance.

It wasn’t until hours later when they were departing that they finally had a moment alone. They were strolling through Mayfair in the dark of night, their hands entwined and their heads pressed close together. Her mother was following a few feet behind in the carriage to maintain the proprieties.

“Did you mean what you said?” he asked. “Truly?”

“I did.”

“I cannot understand it. Mari, you hated me.”

“I was wrong.” It was so simple, and yet she could tell that he didn’t quite believe her. “Very well, I see I shall have to prove it to you.”

“I should accept a simple declaration every day for the rest of our lives.”

“Oh, I could do that, I suppose, but I had something else in mind.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Then she reached into her reticule and pulled out the sheet of foolscap. “Here you go,” she said as she handed it to him. “It’s a list of all the logical, perfectly rational reasons why I am in love with you.”

He held it up to the gaslight, squinting as he tried to make out the words. “I cry foul! I do not snore. And who would love a man for that anyway?”

“I do,” she said as she turned into his arms and pressed her lips to his. “I love you.”

“And I love you, my Wayward Welsh.”

Epilogue

Mr. Camden glared at the newsprint and thought very unhappy thoughts. There in bold black and white was the announcement of the marriage between Lord Whitly and Miss Powel. According to the article, the couple were besotted with one another and were likely to have a glorious future, given that the Prince Regent himself had attended the festivities.

Some people were born lucky, he decided. Some people could defy custom and still succeed. She’d been labeled wayward and had somehow been celebrated for it. Lord Whitly should be a pariah for having his own father arrested for thievery. Instead, he emerged as a friend of the prince and a champion of justice. Even more lucky, Mr. Powel had tripled her dowry, thereby wiping out any financial concerns.

Of all the damned luck.

And to think it could have been his if only he’d been born lucky.

Mr. Camden reached for the gin bottle, only to remember that he no longer drank. He might be unlucky, but he learned from his mistakes. A taste for gin was his biggest error in judgment. Kissing her when he was three sheets to the wind ranked as his second stupidest mistake.

But without any gin, he stared at the newspaper and hated his life. Which was when his door was unceremoniously opened by Ashley Tucker, Lord Rimbury.

“Capital day, isn’t it?”

Mr. Camden blinked at the man. “It’s raining.”