Page 26 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“I shall be deadly serious.” He gave her a teasing look. “I will meet you at nine tomorrow morning.”

“But that’s too soon. You won’t know you’ve lost the wager yet.”

He smiled. “We’ll go again the next morning.”

Just then young Thompson scurried back to the lemonade bowl, so Lord Whitly extended his arm to her. It would have been rude not to take it, so she set her fingers on his sleeve and tried not to marvel how, even through the layers of clothing, she could still feel his muscles flex.

Over six Seasons, she’d held the arms of scores of men. Dandies, Corinthians, impoverished lords, and a few nabobs. None of them had made her aware of his muscles or size beside her. Neither had they made her feel comfortable. Always she was an accompaniment to the gentleman’s presence. She was the woman on his arm, the lady who added to his consequence.

She felt none of those things beside Lord Whitly. She simply felt at ease. She wasn’t intimidated by his size. In truth, he made her feel womanly beside his broad shoulders and powerful stride. His arm was there to support her if she should stumble. He didn’t seem to need her to compliment him. Indeed, she tried by mentioning that his coat fit him very well and he looked quite fine in it.

He gave her a glance and a shrug, and belatedly said, “Thank you.”

She chuckled, because truly, she’d never met a gentleman who had such little vanity. It put her in charity with him. So they ambled happily to the dowagers, who simpered and flirted with him, greatly honored that he’d paid them any mind.

He charmed them smoothly, though she could tell he was distracted. She wanted to ask what he was thinking. She wanted a deeper intimacy with him, and yet that was a ridiculous thought. Friendship could not be found in the middle of a London Season. And intimate friendships were impossible.

There was no time during a ball to discuss anything of substance, no space for more than a nod and a smile. She saw dozens of people every Season and knew nothing about them but the cut of their clothes and their attitude on the weather. And yet here she was, wondering what disturbed him so deeply that he’d pulled at his hair? Why was he still at her side, discussing knee pains with the dowagers?

Then the musicians started tuning again. The break was over, the next set beginning. No time to ask her questions.

“Listen,” said one of the dowagers. “They’re starting again. You young people go dance. That’s what we’re here for, you know, to watch you enjoy yourselves.”

“Look, Miss Powel, here is that handsome Lord Byland come to claim you. I’m afraid you’ll have to give her up, Lord Whitly.”

“I’m afraid I must,” Whitly agreed, and he really sounded regretful. “Fortunately, I will reclaim her hand soon enough. She has consented to waltz with me.”

“Waltz?” gasped the nearest dowager.

“Miss Powel, really?” cried the next. “You’re going to waltz?”

“Oh, my dear, I don’t think that’s proper,” added a third.

On went the objections. Enough that it became uncomfortable and Lord Whitly raised his hand for silence. Strangely enough, it worked. The dowager chorus quieted.

“I cannot believe my ears,” he said solemnly. “How could you think the waltz is anything but proper? Is it possible that you’ve never tried this dance yourselves? Can it be said that you condemn something without having done it?” She had no idea how he could know that, but it was true. As far as she was aware, none of them had ever waltzed.

The dowagers gasped. And then quick bursts of answers exploded all around.

“Well, we’d never!”

“Not at our age!”

“Such a thing to ask!”

He waved away their objections with a casual sweep of his large hand. “Then I shall make it my purpose to get each of you a partner for the waltz. You can’t very well object to something unless you’ve tried it.”

“What?”

“Oh goodness, no!”

“Who would want to dance with us? No, no, that’s for young people.”

Mari glanced at Lord Whitly. His eyes danced even as his lips curled.

“You like the challenge,” she abruptly said, surprised enough to speak her thoughts aloud.

His gaze jumped to hers. “What?”