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Chapter 2
It is notorious that men who have given themselves up to pleasure alone have been ruined along with their families and relations.
The Kama Sutra of Vatsyayana
Alice studied the gentleman who made parlor maids squeak and debutantes swoon, as if he were a map, plotting out the best route to cross him.
Thick, dark brown hair.
Long, lean nose; long, lean body.
Ruby-red silk waistcoat and indecently fitted buckskin breeches that sent a clear message: Here stands a man who rides hard. Batten the hatches. Lock up the ladies.
Alice shivered slightly.
Here stood a gentleman who must have an intimate knowledge of all sixty-four varieties of pleasure. She was quite sure of it.
There was an aura of danger about him—an air of unpredictability.
The apothecaries of the world would do a brisk trade if they could distill his decadent allure to sell to the masses.
Only a dab of this, Mr. Smith, and the ladies will swoon at your feet.
Alice stood taller. She might be country bred, but no man, no matter how outrageously good-looking, would make her breathless.
Really, his eyes are an ordinary gray,she reflected.
Mice are gray. Cobwebs. Dirty dishcloths.
He was perfectly at ease in unfamiliar surroundings.
All that expensive tailoring and aristocratic indolence made the library’s new-purchased Aubusson rugs and gilt ormolu clocks look tawdry and pretentious.
“This won’t stand, Sir Alfred,” Lord Hatherly said with an icy smile. “The duke can’t be held responsible for his actions.”
Her father crossed his arms, refusing to crumple under the disdainful assault of Lord Hatherly’s gaze. “My man of business made some inquiries this morning. We believe the wager to be legal and binding, Lord Hatherly.”
A brief flicker of surprise lit Hatherly’s eyes. He hadn’t expected such resistance.
“You may have one of our other properties.” The marquess made an impatient gesture. “You’re welcome to the castle in Essex. It’s far more profitable and better maintained than Sunderland.”
“I’ll have Sunderland House or I’ll have you for a son-in-law. It’s entirely up to you,” Papa said belligerently, not yielding an inch.
Mama gave Alice a small push forward. “Here is our daughter, Miss Alice Tombs. Curtsy to His Lordship, Alice.”
Alice dropped a grudging curtsy, hoping the marquess remembered the gory details of their last conversation.
“We’ve met.” Hatherly’s gaze flicked over her dismissively.
She gave him her best kitten-with-sharp-claws smile. “So your father gambled you away, Lord Hatherly? What must the other gentlemen be saying? How very inconvenient to be society’s latest drollery.”
“Alice,” whispered her mother warningly.
Hatherly’s gaze darkened. “I could challenge this in the courts.”
“But you won’t,” said her father with a smug smile. “You don’t wish for a protracted public dispute.”
Hatherly’s wide shoulders went rigid. Slowly, he rotated toward Alice’s father. “Do not presume to know what I want, sir.”
