Page 24 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“Perhaps it would be better if—” she began, but he was already scrawling his name—twice—before releasing her arm much more slowly. His fingers seemed to linger on her glove, and his heat burned through the fabric. Her lips began to tingle in memory, and she was so distracted by the dual sensations that she didn’t realize what he had done. But then she forced herself to look away from his eyes and down at the card. “You’ve claimed two waltzes,” she said.

He nodded. “I cannot understand why they weren’t claimed, but never fear. You shall have a partner now.”

As if she couldn’t get a partner without his beneficence. “That’s because I don’t dance the waltz.”

“Whyever not? It’s all the rage in India.”

“I’ve never received permission.”

That wasn’t exactly true. She’d never asked for permission. Even though every other debutante eventually got the nod, she’d never taken the risk, fearing it would appear too wayward.

“That’s nonsense,” he said. “You’re not a green girl. Just dance it.”

She didn’t dare, and she was about to say so, but she’d run out of time. The first notes of the quadrille had started, and her partner for that dance, Mr. Midean, was clearly irritated. That would never do. He was a rising star in the legal arena, and she considered him an excellent potential husband. Number 31 on her list, in fact. Her father wanted a title, but she was more interested in intelligence and potential influence, which Mr. Midean had in abundance. So she pushed Lord Whitly from her thoughts—or she made a valiant attempt at it—and turned her smile onto Mr. Midean.

An hour later, she was still thinking of Lord Whitly instead of her dance partners. She’d seen him talk with Lord Rimbury, then steadily make the rounds of the room. He greeted many people, danced with a few young misses, especially the wallflowers, which she thought was sweet, and then meandered about the room.

If he’d settled with one knot of gentlemen or another, she would have known what to think of him. If he’d stood with the bankers, well then he was a man of finance. If he’d stayed to chat with the politicals, then she could classify him with them. It was clear from his dress that he was neither dandy nor Corinthian, though he was greeted by both sets.

He seemed to be wandering in search of something, but what? She hadn’t the slightest clue, except he spent an inordinate amount of time catching her looking at him. Annoying man. What was he doing watching her? And why was she looking back?

She refocused on her partner, finished the set, and went to her typical place near the dowagers while the musicians took their break. The ladies greeted her like a Greek chorus, all happily in accord. But that lasted only as long as it took for them to smile.

“Goodness, my dear, we all thought you’d forgotten about us.”

“Of course not—”

“Lady Mary here thinks Mrs. Wotton has suffered a brain fever that hurt her sense of color. Look at that gown. It’s purple!”

Mari found the gown in question. It was a beautiful color and worn by a married woman with two nearly grown daughters. Eminently proper, but the dowagers disagreed. She was about to express her support of purple gowns, but Lady Mary spoke first.

“Mari dear, will you pick up my shawl? It’s fallen, and Lily will step on it before long.”

“Of course—”

“I wouldn’t step on it if it wasn’t always underfoot.” An aged hand clutched Mari’s elbow. “Could you get us something to drink? I don’t know about these footmen. Not a one has come ’round to us. Terribly disgraceful.”

Then they were back to being a Greek chorus, all criticizing the staff at parties dating back two score years.

She left them to it, heading to the tepid punch. She would have to make several trips for all of them, but she was used to it by now. She was wondering whether she could manage a fourth full glass without spilling when they were all plucked from her arms by a set of large hands.

“What—”

“Why the devil are you acting as a servant?” Lord Whitly’s expression was fierce, and his hair had gone even more askew.

“I was getting drinks for the dowagers. They—”

“I’m well aware of what you’re doing, but it’s not your job.”

She huffed out a breath. “Of course, it’s not my job, but they’re thirsty, and no one—”

He snapped his fingers beneath one footman’s nose. “You will get a tray and serve every one of those ladies punch. And claret. And anything else they want. Do you understand?”

“But…but, sir…” The hapless man gestured to the punch bowl. Apparently, his job was to pour lemonade.

“What is your name, young man?”

“Thompson.”