Page 3 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“But it has not ended well,” she said, wishing she could make him understand the hell she’d been living in. No man would marry a wayward woman. She’d spent the last six years suppressing every instinct, every breath of life for fear of reviving that label.

“Naturally, I beg pardon for any unwitting insult.”

“Unwitting!”

“But I cannot think that a casual word from me has caused such damage. Truly, Miss Powel, can we not cry pax?”

Six years of guarding her every word, and still no suitors. He’d done that to her, and now he dismissed it as nothing. “My lord, some things cannot be mended with an apology. Look about you. Do you see how even now you wrong me? They think I am a shrew, and you the clever man.”

“Surely not.”

“Surely they do. You gave me a reputation six years ago. One that has dogged my every breath and prevented me from marrying. And now, just when I was set to escape, you return to dredge it all up again.”

“But I didn’t,” he said, his voice tinged with annoyance. “You did. I asked if you were attending a ball.”

“Your presence brings it up again, and well you know it.” Except he didn’t seem to know it. He seemed completely confused which made her hate him even more. He’d casually destroyed her life, and he wasn’t even aware of it.

“Surely you give me too much credit,” he said.

“Look about you,” she said, her gesture tight with frustration. “You have them hanging on your every word.”

“Our every word.”

True. Which left them at a stalemate. She would not forgive him, and he stood accused but unapologetic. Then he echoed her thoughts, which was disturbing indeed.

“We are at an impasse.”

She knew the onlookers agreed with him. From their perspective, he’d said good day and she’d jumped down his throat. She had to be gracious now or attach “shrew” to her “wayward” epithet.

“My lord—” she began, but then Dim #12 interrupted her.

“Settle it in the usual way!”

“What usual way?” Lord Whitly asked, and again, he echoed her thoughts.

“A wager!” cried Dim #13. “Whoever gets the forfeit receives the apology.”

“Oh, yes,” agreed Lady Illston. “That sounds like great fun.”

“I will not wager on—” Mari began.

“I don’t believe that ladies wager on such things,” Lord Whitly said.

“Pish posh!” interrupted Lady Illston. “Ladies wager all the time. And the forfeit shall happen at my ball. Whoever wins shall have the apology from the other.” She twirled her parasol in excitement. “But whatever shall be the contest?”

“Winner! Winner!” Greenie screeched again.

“Hush!” Mari said to the poor bird. “You really must learn another word.”

Lord Whitly clapped his hands together. “An excellent suggestion. I accept.”

To which the Dim pair heartily agreed with a back slap and “Jolly good” repeated multiple times.

“What?” Mari said, startled into looking right into her enemy’s green eyes. “What do you mean, you accept?”

Lord Whitly grinned as if she were a lackwit child. “Whoever teaches Greenie a new word first wins the wager.”

“What? But I wasn’t suggesting anything. I merely—”