As Rich as a Rogue by Jade Lee Page A

title would need to understand household money.
    But rather than explain, he flashed a condescending smile. “Never fear. The title is still well heeled, and my own prosperity is not to be questioned.”
    She wasn’t questioning it. She’d been trying to be sympathetic. “Well, thank God for that,” she snapped. “Heaven knows you’d never survive penniless and without expectations.” Then she gaped at her own audacity. “Good God, you’ve made me shrewish.” How had he managed to take her so quickly from the joy of that lovely dance to this moment, when she couldn’t speak a civil word?
    She watched as his jaw clenched, the muscles in his throat working hard, but no sound came out. In the end, he executed a quick bow. “Lemonade then. I shall return slowly.”
    She curtsied to him before watching him head for the drinks. “I don’t know what it is,” she said to Lord Rimbury. “That man brings out the worst in me.”
    â€œI think he brings out the honesty in you.”
    She shook her head. “I wouldn’t call what I just said honest. I expect he’d do fine dropped anywhere in the middle of anything. He is a winner, after all.” And by extension, that made everyone else—including her—the loser.
    â€œI don’t think he sees it as a game. Perhaps that is the problem.”
    â€œWhat? Life?”
    â€œSociety, Miss Powel. You and I both see it as a game to be played and danced according to set rules. But I’m afraid Lord Whitly sees something vastly different here.”
    â€œBut what could he possibly see?”
    Rimbury shook his head. “For that answer, I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him.”
    She would. In fact, the moment he returned with the drinks, she would find a way to understand this man who persisted in making all of her careful resolutions shatter into nothing. She turned, scanning the place where he’d last been, but didn’t see him. Instead, she spied a footman heading their way. He was carrying a tray with two glasses of lemonade.
    â€œWhere’d he go?” she murmured.
    Then she saw him. No one else could have that broad a back or so casually perfect brown locks. That was he at the top of the stairs as he left the ballroom, departing just when she’d screwed up the fortitude to ask him a serious question.
    * * *
    Mari did not enjoy waking early in London during the Season. In summer, she was always up and about while the sun was just topping the rise. The fresh air called to her, and she had plans in the summer. She helped her sister with her garden and in her stillroom, and her young twin cousins were always courting disaster somewhere. Not to mention that the village was an endless source of need, and she’d found purpose in helping at the school or at a task with the vicar’s wife. But mostly she felt alive in the country in the way of a tree finally setting down roots.
    Except, of course, they weren’t her roots. They were her parents’ roots, and all the work she did helped their standing grow in their village and on their land. None of it was her own. And none of it would bear fruit for herself or her children.
    She desperately needed her own family, and to that end she husband-hunted. She endured long hours at balls and musicales. She slept late to preserve her looks, and maintained very strict diet and cosmetic regimens for optimum appearance of health and beauty.
    Therefore, it was unusual and with grave reluctance that she struggled out of bed the next morning. It was a testament to how desperately she wished to speak with Lord Whitly that she managed to rouse herself at all. Plus, it was the only time to speak with him before her session with Greenie and afternoon calls. So she dragged herself out of bed, and dressed in a riding habit that was many Seasons out of date and scratchy to boot. Then she chose the most docile horse they owned