Page 23 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“And you’ve remained friends?”

“For the most part.”

“Then there was no woman to destroy your friendship? No harpy who tore you apart?”

She hadn’t thought it possible. Suddenly, Lord Rimbury’s face drew in tight, and his eyes looked deeply sad. Always he was dramatic in his expression, but never with this quiet dread. “Not yet,” he said softly. “But the evening is still young.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, but her words were drowned out by the orchestra. Mr. Hario escorted his daughter Isabelle onto the floor. The girl was dressed in white with deep blue ribbons for accents. It was a perfect come-out gown for a young lady who couldn’t stop grinning. This was her night, and Mari smiled to see the girl’s absolute joy.

“Are there dots on this dress, or did you spill on it?” a rich voice asked. Lord Whitly, of course. His tone was matter-of-fact, almost dismissive, but he had one of those voices that rumbled excitingly on the ear no matter what he said.

“Dots,” she snapped. “It’s a pattern.” She hadn’t meant to sound so shrewish.

“It looks like you spilled milk on it. The dots aren’t regular.”

“That’s part of the pattern.”

“I think it looks bloody ridiculous. Why wear a pattern that doesn’t look like a real pattern, especially since almost no one can see it?”

“Because it’s not wayward, you oaf!” Ten seconds in his company, and she was nearly screaming. Fortunately for her, Lord Rimbury abruptly burst out laughing. And when both she and Lord Whitly looked at him, he shrugged.

“I told you,” he said, still chuckling. “We can’t help it.”

“Ash,” Lord Whitly grumbled, “what are you going on about?”

“Peter,” Lord Rimbury returned in exactly the same tone, “whatever possessed you to come to a ball in such a state?”

Lord Whitly looked down at himself. “Is this the wrong fashion?” He smoothed down his hair. “Have I got it wrong?”

“You look elegant,” Lord Rimbury said with a grin.

“It’s your behavior that is lacking, my lord,” Mari clarified.

Lord Whitly frowned as his cheeks pinkened. She wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t seen it.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, and there was no lie in his tone. Then he executed a handsome bow. “Miss Powel, a pleasure to see you this evening.”

She dropped into a curtsy. “Lord Whitly, I see you have returned to London.”

“Yes.” Then he stood there, staring at her as the conversation lagged.

“Was your trip successful?” she finally asked.

“Successful?” He reached back, likely to rub a hand over the back of his neck, but was stopped by his clothing. He ended up upsetting his hair instead. “I suppose in a way.”

“Where did you go? You never said.”

“To the family estate in Lincolnshire.” His expression softened. “It’s beautiful this time of year. It’s beautiful every time of year, and I’ve missed it.”

“India did not compare?”

“To the green fields of Kesteven? Never.”

The set was forming up, and her partner came to her side, bowing before her with a fashionably bored expression. He acted the proper gentleman, and she found him much less interesting than Lord Whitly. Still, she must keep to the proprieties.

“If you’ll excuse me. I believe Mr. Midean has come to claim his dance.”

“Of course. But if I may, is there a dance left for me?” He quickly caught her arm and stroked over her glove until he grabbed the dance card attached to her wrist.