Page 31 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

Because she was an unmarried woman in search of a husband. Because she wanted to be one of them some day. Not a bitter ape leader, but a woman accepted and powerful in her own sphere of influence. Because she dreamed of leaving her father’s Welsh name and taking an English one with a family of her own.

But saying that would reveal too much of her secret heart. So she blamed him for his inadequacy instead of looking at her own.

“Your actions have consequences, my lord. Not for you, but for anyone in a weaker position.”

He shook his head. “I have not hurt you, Miss Powel. Whispers behind fans are nothing. When I cause someone to poison your food or shoot you from the shadows, then you may harp at me. But this…” He gestured disdainfully to the people around them. “These are trivialities trussed up to be important.”

She gestured with her hands, a quick flick of her wrists to deflect his words. She wished they could, in truth. “Why do you come into Society if you have no comprehension of it?”

He sighed, his expression frustrated. “Why indeed?”

She glared at him, wondering if he meant to answer his own question. But instead of speaking, he looked at her as if she could possibly fathom his motives.

Meanwhile, Lord Rimbury released a low whistle. “It’s dreadfully hot in here. Should I get us something to drink?”

A brandy, she thought, but she didn’t say it. Instead, she smiled at the man who was becoming a friend. “I should love some lemonade.”

“Excellent,” he answered, but before he left, Lord Whitly held up his hand.

“No, I’ll get it. You were right, Ash. I should not have come here until my mind was settled.”

“Ah,” returned Lord Rimbury. “It was bad at home?”

Oh dear. She’d been cutting up at him, when something dreadful had happened.

And yet the man simply shrugged. “You know how tedious it is to look at endless pages of numbers. My mind has run to madness after a week of it.”

“You were looking at your family accounts,” she deduced. It wasn’t proper for her to speak of it, but she hated pretending to be a birdbrain. She often assisted her father with his ledgers when he wished to be especially private about it. And, of course, any woman who wanted a prestigious title needed to understand household money.

But rather than explain, he flashed a condescending smile. “Never fear. The title is still well heeled, and my own prosperity is not to be questioned.”

She wasn’t questioning it. She’d been trying to be sympathetic. “Well, thank God for that,” she snapped. “Heaven knows you’d never survive penniless and without expectations.” Then she gaped at her own audacity. “Good God, I’ve become a shrew.” How had he taken her from the joy of that dance to this?

She watched his jaw clench before he executed a quick bow. “Lemonade then. I shall return slowly.”

She curtsied to him before watching him head for the drinks. “That man brings out the worst in me,” she said to Lord Rimbury.

“He brings out the honesty in you.”

She shook her head. “What I just said was wrong. He’d do fine dropped anywhere in the middle of anything. He is a winner, after all.” And by extension, everyone else was the loser.

“He doesn’t see it as a game. Perhaps that is the problem.”

“What? Life?”

“Society, Miss Powel. You and I both see a game to be played and danced according to set rules. Lord Whitly sees something vastly different here.”

“But what could he possibly see?”

Rimbury shook his head. “You should ask him.”

She would. In fact, the moment he returned with the drinks, she would find a way to make sense of the man. But she couldn’t find him. Instead, she spied a footman heading their way. He was carrying a tray with two glasses of lemonade.

“Where’d he go?” she murmured.

Then she saw him. No one else could have that broad a back or so casually perfect brown locks. He was leaving the ballroom just when she’d screwed up the courage to ask him a serious question.

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