Page 32 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

Mari did not wake during the Season. In summer, she was always up while the sun barely topped the rise. The fresh air called to her, and she had plans in the summer. She helped her sister with her garden and in her stillroom, and her young twin cousins were always courting disaster somewhere. Not to mention that the village was an endless source of need. She’d found purpose helping at the school or with the vicar’s wife. But mostly she felt alive in the country, in the way of a tree finally setting down roots.

Except they weren’t her roots. They were her parents’ roots, her parents’ home.

She desperately wanted her own family, and to that end she husband-hunted. She endured long hours at balls and musicales. She slept late to preserve her looks and maintained very strict diet and cosmetic regimens.

Therefore, it was with grave reluctance that she struggled out of bed the next morning. It was a testament to how desperately she wished to speak with Lord Whitly that she managed to rouse herself at all. So she dragged herself out of bed, and dressed in a riding habit that was many Seasons out of date and scratchy to boot. Then she chose the most docile horse they owned and headed to Rotten Row with a groom trotting behind her.

She approached the Row slowly, her composure already failing. The avid riders were out, and the thunder of horses’ hooves pounded in her head. A dozen gentlemen and nearly as many women riding like the wind. Their horses were beautiful, and their tack designed for show.

What had she been thinking? There was no way she could show to advantage among these people. She hadn’t ridden in years and was already sore.

She was just turning around when she saw him: Lord Whitly flying toward them on a moderate-sized horse. Goodness, his creature was fast.

She stopped to stare, as did many others, especially the women. And when he finally drew up, his cheeks were red, his eyes dancing, and he turned to Lord Rimbury, who thundered in behind him.

“Good Lord, she’s amazing,” Lord Rimbury said as he pulled his stallion to a trot. “Odd-looking to be sure, but damned fast.”

The mare wasn’t odd-looking, at least not for a horse from India. It had a gorgeous reddish coat, though not so much as to be fully prized. The inward-turning ear tips were what appeared odd, but Mari knew it was the whorls underneath the eyes that damned the creature.

Meanwhile, Lord Whitly grinned and smoothed down his horse’s mane. “She’s a beauty,” he said before leaning forward to speak to his mare. His words were in Hindi, but clear enough to Mari, who had spent several years in that foreign country while her father made his fortune. “You’re my best lady,” he said. “And you’ll get fine oats tonight.”

“A beauty to be sure,” she said in that same language. “And I’ll wager you got her for a song with those whorls.”

He turned to her, his eyes widening in surprise. “Miss Powel! I didn’t know you spoke Hindi.”

“I don’t as a rule,” she said in English. “It’s been a very long time.” Then she looked about her and flushed. She hadn’t realized she’d come close enough to converse with the man, and yet suddenly, she was beside him. Then he aligned his mare with hers and they began walking together.

“You remember enough,” he said in English. “And you’re right, the eye whorls dropped the price significantly.”

“What?” asked Lord Rimbury as he joined her on the other side. “What do you mean?”

Mari gestured to the hair pattern along the horse’s nose. “A whorl on the nose is unlucky, but on the neck is very good. Better still would be a whorl on the fetlocks, which means victory.”

“The devil, you say,” Lord Rimbury exclaimed.

“You know your Marwari horses,” Lord Whitly commented.

No, she didn’t. But since gentlemen enjoyed horses, she’d read up on the Indian breeds when she’d begun husband-hunting. It gave her a relevant topic of conversation and a way to cast her time in India in a beneficial light.

“I had a groom in India who liked to share tales,” she said.

“Truly?” he asked. “Grooms don’t generally chatter to the ladies of the house.”

“I pestered him until he talked to me,” she said, a little unnerved that he listened so closely to what she said. “And I read more about them when I realized gentlemen often love anything to do with horses.”

“Of course,” he said, his tone neutral.

On her opposite side, Lord Rimbury pulled out his pocket watch and muffled a curse. “I’m done for,” he said, his tone morose. “Have to get cleaned up before meeting with the banker about a pasture property.”

She smiled at him. “Are you acquiring, my lord?”

His expression lengthened, and she realized he was selling, not buying. But before she could stammer out an apology, his mournful look turned dramatic.

“Would you love me better if I were, Miss Powel?”

She shook her head and answered honestly. “No, my lord, I would not. I find my affections have nary a whit to do with land.”

He tipped his hat to her. “Which makes me appreciate you all the more.” Then after a quick nod to Lord Whitly, he wheeled his stallion away. He took his time doing it though, letting it prance about and draw some attention before he settled it with a fond pat on its neck.