Page 39 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

He sighed. She was like a flame that danced before his eyes, but a moment’s mishandling would burn him alive.

“Good thinking about the knife,” she whispered.

She seated smoothly, then pulled back her fingers to tuck them neatly around the reins. A breath later, and all that glorious fluttering of her eyes disappeared. No more trembling. No more light. Just the suffocating descent of propriety.

“You were born to be a countess,” he murmured.

Her gaze sharpened on his face. “What?”

“Cool and proper,” he said. “I have never been more pleased and disgusted at the same time.” His own heart beat hot and insistent. His mind kept flashing lascivious fantasies that he tried to banish. And worst of all, his legs felt shakier than a newborn colt’s. He was in a miserable state, and she sat atop her horse like a queen.

He waited a moment, but she had no words for him. Just as well since his mind still churned along wholly inappropriate paths. He mounted his horse, wincing as he settled astride. Damnation, this was going to hurt.

Then they rode sedately, thank God, to her home. It was as he’d expected for her residence. Ostentatious but not exclusive. A place for the wealthy without title. And as he escorted her up the walk, a butler opened the massive door and stood there like a disdainful statue. He had to speak now before they were within earshot of that man.

“Have I answered your question?”

He felt her startle. “My lord?”

He waited a moment. He was learning that with her, timing was critical. So he paused until he had her full attention.

“That is why I believe we will suit.”

Then he kissed her hand before retreating as fast as he could manage while she stood gaping after him.

Chapter Nine

The blighter. The bloody, arrogant, presumptuous man. To think that one kiss, one long, overpowering, amazing kiss could make her rethink her entire life’s plan simply because it was… Well, it was a bloody good kiss.

Lord, she was still tingling. Thank heaven Nicols had been there as her groom. If he hadn’t interfered when he did, who knows what might have happened in the park where anybody—most especially Dim #2 and Fop #14—could have seen.

Certainly she’d been kissed before. Any number of unscrupulous gentlemen had tried to lure her into a compromising position to force their marriage. But she knew better than to wander into dark corners with impoverished men.

That didn’t mean she hadn’t allowed a kiss or three. One sweet press on the lips from the very nicest Dim, and two sloppy, repulsive kisses from potential husbands. She’d rapidly crossed them off her possible list, because a lifetime of that had made her want to retch. And then that earlier nip from Lord Whitly, which hadn’t truly been a kiss. More of a tiny bite. There had been no…well, none of what had just happened between them.

And now she knew what a real kiss was like. One drugging press of his lips, and she’d all but been stripped naked. She was beginning to think she was concussed. There was no other explanation for her behavior.

Horrible Horace cleared his throat from the doorway, and Mari belatedly realized she’d been standing in the walkway, gawking like a love-struck mooncalf.

Well, no more. Once again—perhaps for the thousandth time—she swore Lord Whitly would not discompose her again. She was so determined she planned to write down stratagems to avoid him and his charm. She would carry the list in her reticule and look at it often. Right after she taught Greenie his phrase and made sure to win that wager.

She breezed inside and was halfway to the stairs when Horace upset her plans with a single name.

“Mr. Camden,” he intoned behind her.

She froze, waiting for him to pronounce the rest of her doom.

“He awaits your pleasure in the parlor.”

Of course he did. Just when her mind was filled with Lord Whitly, her best husband candidate decided to make an early call. She looked at the mantel clock. “It’s rather early for callers.” It wasn’t even eleven.

“He claimed he had an appointment with you. Your mother is entertaining him now. Tea has already been served.”

An appointment? As if she were a banker? Gentlemen called on ladies; they did not have appointments. One more thing she would have to teach Mr. Camden if they wed. She took a breath, smoothed her skirts, and went to the parlor. Horace knew his job and announced her with echoing tones that were unnecessary in the intimate room.

Mari walked in, a smooth greeting on her face. Mr. Camden rose to his feet, his wispy blond hair floating about his ears as he tugged the crease out of his pants. Her mother turned as well, her face warm with welcome. Then both of their eyes widened in shock.

“My dear,” her mother gasped. “Whatever happened?”