Page 48 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“Please ask Mama—”

“Your mother is out making calls.”

Of course she was. If the men weren’t right now discussing her future, Mari would be out the door as well. “Very well,” she said as she stripped off her hat and gloves. “I shall…” Her voice trailed away. Her father had stopped crooning and left the tune to Lord Whitly. Lord, he had an exceptional voice.

It was slow and filled with tenderness. She didn’t know enough Hindi to understand the words, but Lord Whitly’s voice infused it with pain. Slow, melancholic longing that called to her. Mesmerized, she walked to the dining room but did not enter. She stood in the doorway, her eyes tearing for no reason at all.

She blinked them away. She was not a watering pot, so she focused on the way Lord Whitly lounged in his seat, stretching his legs out before him as his head dropped against the back of his chair. His hand was on his chest, and his eyes had slid closed. Clearly inebriated, and yet his song continued.

Her father saw her. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes bright, but he didn’t do more than acknowledge her with a nod. He too was caught up in the ballad.

Then it was done. Lord Whitly exhaled the last note on a sigh and opened his eyes. He wasn’t looking at her, but at her father, and when he spoke, his words were gravelly with emotion.

“There. Now you have it.”

Her father planted his chin on his hand. “What?”

“The best thing I brought back from India. That song.”

“Ah. And did you learn it from a beautiful woman?”

Lord Whitly smiled, the expression nostalgic. “I did.”

Mari found her mood souring, and she pushed off the doorjamb. Good God, had she really been lolling against the doorway like a lazy chambermaid? She moved into the room, making sure her steps were crisp and her words even more so.

“I see chef has finished his latest batch of bangla.” She scanned the table to see the remains of a half dozen of her father’s favorite Indian dishes. “And you’ve had a feast as well.”

There was the rapid scramble of feet as the two men rushed to stand. Meanwhile, her father grinned at her.

“Best Indian chef in all of London.”

“The only one, Papa.”

Lord Whitly bowed his greeting. “This was the finest meal I’ve had since coming home, and I extend my highest compliments to your chef.”

“He’s a good man and a good cook,” her father said with a warm smile.

“He’s an average cook, but an excellent brewmeister,” Mari returned. Then she took a deep breath and forced herself to smile, as if she wasn’t worried that her father had just engaged her to this man. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Lord Whitly. Did you and father discuss anything significant?”

Her father waved his hand in too wide an arc. “It’s all significant. We have more in our heads than fripperies and balls.”

This was a standard complaint among her father. Her usual response would be to tease him about his less-than-fashionable attire. For a man who desperately wanted to rise in the ranks, her father was woefully bad at dressing himself.

But instead of the usual comment, her gaze caught and held with Lord Whitly. He was looking at her with a thrilling intensity. He hadn’t moved from his formal stance, but his eyes were trained so tightly on her face that she couldn’t look away. And she couldn’t deny the flutter of delight at his attention.

Then he ruined it completely.

“Your hair makes me wince. Doesn’t it hurt?”

She touched her pins, noting that many of her curls had escaped, so she quickly attempted to settle them back into place.

“No, no,” he said. “You’re going to give yourself a migraine.” Then before she could stop him, he pulled out several of her pins.

“Stop that!” she cried. But he was quicker than any man—especially an inebriated one—ought to be. A moment later, every lock on her head was released to fly about her face in abandon. And as quick as that, her head felt better. The ease on her scalp made her eyes flutter closed in relief as her hair tumbled down her back.

“Give me my pins!” she said.

Lord Whitly shook his head while her father dropped down into his chair. “He’s right, you know. You look much prettier with everything…” He waved vaguely about his ears. “Loose.”