Page 37 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“It isn’t Mr. Randall’s either!” And damn it, they were back to that braggart, which was the last thing he wanted. Behind him, his mare was growing restive. He needed to keep her walking and eventually stable her. With a grimace of frustration, he gestured to Miss Powel.

“Shall we walk some more?”

She stifled a word. It was most likely a curse, which had him smiling. He liked that he could make her swear, though he wanted to hear the word rather than have her swallow it down.

They fell into step beside one another, the air thick with unresolved questions. “I never imagined I would have to fight so hard for the woman of my choice.”

“Because you are a wealthy lord?”

“Yes.”

She sighed and kicked idly at a stone. “If you wish to pursue this, you need only speak to my father. He will put me on bread and water and lock me in a dungeon until I accept you.”

His eyes narrowed. “Your father would do that?”

“Probably,” she said with a laugh. Her expression was easy despite her words.

“Your father is a harsh man?” he pressed. This was something he needed to know.

“Papa? Well, no more than the usual, I suppose. He’s considered merciless in business.”

“How merciless?” In his experience, business could get very ugly. “I need particulars, Miss Powel.”

She faced him squarely. “Then you should talk to my father.”

He nodded. “I will.”

It took her a moment to process those words and then another breath before she grabbed his arm in alarm. “Oh no. I misspoke. My father is the gentlest man in the world, and you should definitely not speak to him.”

Now they were getting somewhere. “Afraid of bread and water?”

“Yes! Well, no, not literally. Good God, why are we speaking of my father? You are correct, he wants the title and would do a great deal to see me wed to you. But after the vows are exchanged, you would not be shackled to him. It would be me in your bed. Day in and day out with a wife who spends most of her time wanting to throttle you.”

He heard her words, but most of them were lost under the fantasy of her in his bed. Of her beneath him night after night and well into the morning, when he could wake her with sweet kisses and bold thrusts.

“My lord?” she pressed when he had been silent too long.

He forcibly drew himself out of his reverie. “What do you want in a man, if it isn’t title or money?”

She sighed. “Shall I name the countless well-heeled peers who would be a nightmare as a husband? There are exactly fifty-three.”

“Are those the eligible gentlemen?”

She shuddered. “Goodness, no. The unmarried or widower titles number thirty-seven. Beyond that, there are over a dozen in my acceptable column, and exactly none who wish to court me, a wayward Welsh cit.”

“Lord Rimbury is courting you.”

“Well-heeled, my lord.”

“I am courting you.”

“You are in my nightmare category.”

He turned to her. “Why?”

“And here we are full circle. I have explained to you that we do not suit. We fight constantly. You make me want to do violence. Every single one of my good intentions fly to the boughs the moment you enter a room. You make me insane, my lord, and—”

He did not allow her to say more. He knew her words were meant to dissuade him, but he heard what she didn’t say. That she lost her careful plans when he was around. And if they were wed, she would challenge him to speak better, to think more clearly, and to act in every way better than the lummox he had been. That he often still was.