Page 14 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“Oh dear. I hadn’t realized that was Lord Whitly’s doing.”

“Jo tried to be restrained, but it isn’t in her nature. She’s very high-spirited. She soon learned that no matter how dull she appeared, no matter what she did, the name followed her. She laughed too loudly; she gestured too broadly. She was even criticized for the way she sipped her tea.”

“But she’s happily married now, yes?”

“Yes, thank heaven, but it was only after five Seasons.” Horrible, difficult Seasons. And then all the time in between, they’d had to listen to her father bemoan their lack of accomplishment. As if any of it was their fault.

“And you?” Eleanor prompted. “How has it been for you?”

Mari sighed. “You know how it’s been. Miserable. Do you know why my gowns are a single color? I can never wear two colors or even a pattern.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am. I wore a lovely yellow gown with a dark blue shawl once and was called flighty and clearly wayward.”

Eleanor pursed her lips. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I know, and yet the label persists. If I sing anything but the slowest dirge, it’s proof that my upbringing has been too lenient.”

“Is that why you never sing?”

Mari nodded. “Or dance much. Or do anything but wait hand and foot on the dowagers. I have been the model of propriety—I daily want to scream—all because one night Lord Whitly called me wayward. The blighter!”

“I doubt Whitly knew you would be plagued by that moniker.”

Mari clenched her hands in her lap. “I don’t care. He was speaking to a notorious gossip and knew his words would be repeated.”

Eleanor patted the couch near her hand. “I think you overestimate how much a gentleman thinks about anything.”

Mari huffed out a breath. “That’s all the more damning. One careless word to Fitzhugh has caused me to spend six years wearing dull dresses and serving tepid lemonade to dowagers.”

Eleanor waited a moment, clearly thinking about her story. In the end, she pulled her hands back into her lap and gave Mari a wan smile. “You have been the soul of propriety, and that is why I agreed to help you.”

That and the generous sum of money from Mari’s father. Mari didn’t know the exact details of the arrangement, but she knew that Lady Eleanor had begun aiding a few very select ladies in their matchmaking efforts. This year was her turn.

Which meant this Season was her chance. After six years of acting completely dull, no one called her wayward anymore. She’d worn a patterned gown two nights ago with no ill effects. It had been yellow with tiny white dots. Hardly visible, which was why she’d allowed it, plus a very daring lace trim. And she’d gotten away with it!

Then out of the blue, Whitly returned and confronted her in Hyde Park. Suddenly, she was a topic of conversation again. The label would more than resurface; it would gain new life, and she would be back to wearing beige again. And sitting along the wall at every event, without a single suitor.

“Oh, I shall kill him!” she fumed as she set aside her tea. She couldn’t drink it anyway. She desperately wished for a stiff drink of claret. Or better yet, brandy. That was another thing she hadn’t had for six years, all thanks to Lord Whitly.

“Don’t fret,” Eleanor soothed. “This isn’t disastrous. It’s a harmless diversion.”

“Other ladies can have harmless diversions. The Wayward Welsh can’t.”

“Well, yes, Mr. Camden did seem rather put out by the wager.”

Her best matrimonial possibility already running because of Lord Whitly. “It’s not fair! I haven’t done anything wrong. Why is it so hard for me to find a husband?” The need to be married grew stronger every day, like an itch she could not scratch. She wanted to plant roots, to have a home of her own, with children and responsibilities. Unmarried women were not allowed such things, and she hated it.

Lady Eleanor sighed, lifted her tea, and sipped it with perfect serenity. Or pretended to, because when she set the cup down, the liquid hadn’t lowered. Then the lady looked long and hard at Mari. And she kept looking, so Mari ended up smoothing down her hair. Had some of the strands gone wayward again?

The woman must have understood her thoughts, because Eleanor smiled and picked up her tea again. “No, no, don’t go doubting your looks. You are in fine fettle. Best I’ve seen from you in a while.”

“I am incensed.”

“It gives a lovely color to your cheeks.”

“I shall win that wager,” Mari growled.