Chapter 6

By the third wicket, Vander was regretting every decision he'd made in life that had led him to this point.

It wasn't that he disliked Priscilla Peabody, precisely.

That would be akin to disliking… kittens, perhaps. Or syllabub. It was difficult to despise something so sweet and fluffy.

On the other hand, Vander would argue that there was a certain way one preferred to enjoy such confections.

In small doses.

"And then," Miss Peabody continued, "I said to Mama, ‘What if we tried it with a red ribbon?'"

Vander grunted in response. Which would normally feel rude, but he had discovered in his first three minutes of Miss Peabody's acquaintance that he would not be afforded time for a more customary response, say, two entire words.

"But you will never believe this." Miss Peabody paused for emphasis, squeezing his forearm. "The red ribbon clashed."

Throwing caution to the wind, Vander hazarded an entire sentence. "Is that s—"

"But then," Miss Peabody cried, triumphant, "it came to me! I said, ‘Mama, what about this pink ribbon…'"

Vander wondered if it was physically possible to knock himself insensible with a pall-mall mallet in such a way that would make it look like an accident. He would be the laughingstock of London if he pulled it off.

But it might be worth it…

A few feet away, Letty appeared to be having only a slightly better time of it with Throckmorton. Vander had observed her making a number of conversational overtures, all of which withered on the vine in the face of the baron's monosyllabic answers. She had eventually given up and was now smiling across the lawn in serene silence.

What they should do was pair Miss Peabody with Throckmorton. She wouldn't notice, much less mind, that he wasn't saying a word. That would leave Vander to partner with Letty.

If he were partners with Letty, he would actually be enjoying himself. Not the pall-mall, per se. Pall-mall was still ridiculous.

But at least they could have a laugh about it. She had caught him by surprise earlier. Who would have thought that little Letty Daughtry would grow up to have such a wicked sense of humor? He had assumed—wrongly, as it turned out—that she would be prim and inane.

He was having a miserable time with Miss Peabody. But let him be partners with Letty and throw in a couple more glasses of champagne, and he would wager that the afternoon could have been, dare he say it, fun.

Beside him, Miss Peabody batted her eyes, giving no sign that she had noticed his lapsed attention. "I'll bet you cannot guess what I suggested next!"

"To try a blue ribbon?" Vander hazarded.

Her mouth fell open into a perfect little circle. "How did you know?" She shook her head as if she simply could not believe it. "You must be even more intelligent than everyone says!"

He supposed that most men would have been puffing out their chests at such a compliment. But oddly, Vander found that the initial spark of attraction he had felt toward Miss Peabody had gone out.

He shrugged. "Just a lucky guess."

It was fortunate that he was in such a good mood and his stores of patience were at capacity. And if Priscilla Peabody was annoying, well, it looked like he might not have to marry her, or someone of her ilk, after all.

Last night, after dinner at David's and the conversation with his mother that had followed, he had gone to Boodle's to test out the plan that would hopefully get him out from underneath his father's thumb. Boodle's was the club where a man went when he wanted to play deep, and the site where many a fortune had been lost.

But one man's loss was another man's gain, and Vander meant to be on the winning side of that exchange. He had a few points in his favor. Thanks to the mathematical acumen he had inherited from his father, he could calculate his odds of winning any given hand with pinpoint precision. He also had a good memory for counting cards and knowing when he might press his advantage.

He hoped that, if he applied himself, he could earn a living at the gaming tables. And surely enough, last night he had walked away with a tidy profit of twenty-five pounds.

Buoyed by optimism, Vander nodded and grunted as the conversation moved on, to ribbons of yellow, green, and lilac. And he survived an afternoon of Priscilla Peabody's inane chatter.

Just barely.