by Mary Balogh
Rittsman picked up the bank draft. "Being a gentleman, Kenwood," he said, "I will not say 'I told you so.' But I would have to say that this is the easiest won wager I ever engaged in."
The marquess raised his quizzing glass to his eye and surveyed the other through it with haughty languor.
There was a chorus of dismay from some of the other gentlemen.
"Jack!" Maurice said. "Your reputation will take years to recover from this. I would not have thought it of you, old chap."
"Never mind his reputation," Hartley said. "I had two hundred of my own on this, Jack."
"And I had a hundred," Quincy added.
The marquess shrugged and lowered his glass. "I must be on my way," he said. He took a few steps toward the door before turning back and raising one lace-covered hand. "Ah, by the way, you will all be receiving official cards of invitation, but since I am here, I might as well make those invitations verbal as well. I hope to see you all at my wedding on the first day of August. At St. George's, of course."
His audience gaped at him.
"You, Jack? Getting married?" Bedard chose to be spokesman for the group.
The marquess raised his quizzing glass again. "Yes," he said. "Me. Getting married. I will expect to see you all at the church." He turned to leave.
"Jack!" Maurice found his voice at last. "But who are you marrying, old chap?"
Lord Kenwood turned back to the group once more, one eyebrow raised. "Did I omit that detail?" he said. "How careless of me. Mrs. Diana Ingram, actually."
Silence followed his unhurried withdrawal from the room.
"Well!" Hartley said at last. "Old Jack getting married. Well!"
Rittsman sneered. "One has to pity the poor bride," he said. "One wonders how many weeks or months will pass before Kenwood is back to his old ways."
"Not Jack," Maurice said stoutly. "Jack can have any female he wants—almost—but he will be a loyal husband. Take my word on it."
"Impossible!" Rittsman said scornfully. "Kenwood could not stay faithful to one female if his life depended upon it."
Maurice flushed. "I don't believe he could be unfaithful to a wife if his life depended on it," he said.
Rittsman sneered.
Maurice glared.
"Oh, I say," someone said enthusiastically, "do I smell a wager?"
