Page 99 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“Mari, really!” cried her mother as she came up beside her. “There is no need to take out your temper on the staff.”

“On the contrary, Mama, there is every reason. The man is a snoop and a snob. If you choose to tolerate such uncouth behavior, then that is your choice. But I shall unleash my temper on him every time I see him act in a way that does not fit with the character of this house.”

Her mother sighed and dropped her hands on her hips. “Darling, I thought you understood that your father prefers an obnoxious butler.”

“He’s supposed to be obnoxious to everyone else!”

“Well, who is Lord Whitly but someone else?”

How to answer that one? Mari certainly couldn’t say he was the man she intended to marry. Not when she feared she’d want to kill him soon. So she glared at Horace and spoke in chilly tones.

“You will not listen to me,” she said coldly. Then she realized exactly what she had said and huffed out a frustrated breath. “To my conversations,” she amended.

“And how shall I stop myself, miss?” he intoned in the coldest, most pompous manner. “Shall I block my ears? Muzzle your suitors? Or perhaps you prefer I lock the back doors to all urchins speaking your name when they knock in the middle of the night?”

Well, he had a point, especially given what he’d seen this morning. She was hardly one to be throwing stones. But she’d be damned if she allowed their own servant to intimidate her. Also, if she could vanquish this particular dragon, then facing Peter would be that much easier.

So she drew herself up to her full height, which left her still staring upward at the damned man. Papa also liked tall butlers, more’s the pity. But when she spoke, she said each word in a clipped and imperious tone.

“I will tell you what you must do to avoid my ill temper, Horace. You must act in every way as someone who is kind. Kind to dirty street children, nervous suitors, and yes, even imperious lords who do not deserve such forgiveness. And then, sir, I will forgive you for failing to be kind to me.”

It was a great deal more than she ever said to anyone, much less their obnoxious butler. But the words tumbled out, raw and clear. And while he gaped at her, she swept past him and pulled open the library door.

“Papa,” she said loudly as she glared at Lord Whitly where he looked at a map of London. The boy, Tie, stood between him and her father and was pointing with a dirty finger at a single intersection. “I do hope you said nothing sensitive. There was at least one ear pressed to the door.”

Her father looked up and frowned at the butler. “Damn it, Horace, I pay you to listen at her doorway, not mine.”

“Papa!” Mari cried, but her father was still talking to Horace.

“Take young Tie here for his bath. He’ll be staying with us for a few days. I’m making you personally responsible for his actions while he’s here. He’s to be clean and well fed, but is not to leave the house under any circumstances. And…” He glanced over at her mother. “What do you think? Shall we teach him to read?”

“Of course, we should teach him to read. If he’s been of service to us, then we should help him in return.”

Their butler had no chance to respond as her father kept talking. “An excellent suggestion. Horace, see to it personally, would you?”

Which was when poor Horace finally found his voice. “Teach him to read how, sir?”

“Kindly, Mr. Horace,” Mari said somewhat gleefully. “There are books in the nursery that will help. And while you’re at it, you might remember it was only an accident of birth that kept either one of us from this child’s fate.”

To which Horace drew up to his full height. “I was no accident of birth. My family has served in great houses for generations.”

“Then be charitable to those who weren’t so lucky by seeing to his bath and his education.” And with that, she pressed the boy’s hand into Horace’s and shut the door on them both.

There. One dragon slain, at least temporarily. But now it was time to face the larger, more difficult one: Lord Whitly. And with both her parents in attendance.

*

The minute Mari burst through the door of her father’s office, Peter knew she’d cause trouble. After all, she was a virgin who’d just had a grand adventure—her first bar fight, followed by her first sexual experience. Overwhelming for anyone, but she was a woman prone to grand schemes and elaborate rationalizations. Given the upset of this morning, she’d had just enough time to get it all wrong without enough time to realize she was making mountains out of molehills.

Which made it doubly bad that they were about to discuss things in front of her parents. He had to get her out of here now.

“Lord Whitly,” she began.

Oh hell. She was in high dudgeon, making his name sound half summons, half curse.

Maybe he could derail her with a compliment. “Miss Powel, how lovely you look. I always appreciate it when your hair is left to curl more naturally.” He counted himself especially clever, since that comment couldn’t fail to remind her of the glorious way he’d worshiped her hair—and her body—not more than a few hours ago.

“My hair?” She blinked and ran a hand through the riotous locks. “Thank you.”