Free The Rake and the Wallflower by Allison Lane

feathers?” asked Clifford, resting one hip on the corner of the table.
    “’Tis an innocent lark. And a service to society. Those hen-wits were ready to meet over a bird.”
    “Abshurd. Now a dog or a horse… Good wagering there. But never a bird.”
    “Not even a wren?”
    Gray enjoyed Clifford’s scowl. After losing Gina, the earl had added new exaggerations to Gray’s reputation. In retrospect, Gray wished he’d bowed out of the competition. Gina’s passion was as fiery as he’d expected, but she was a demanding little witch — one of the reasons he’d delayed his return to town. He would have to dismiss her, but she was the sort to throw things, and he hated violence.
    “If you’ve settled your wager, you’ll be on your way.” Clifford swayed. It was clear he wanted privacy to sleep off the wine. He was so far beyond foxed that it was a miracle he’d retained the sense to leave the ball. But the man would never risk becoming an on-dit .
    Any other time, Gray would have left, but he could not abandon Mary. Until Clifford passed out, she would be trapped. And Clifford was looking rather green. Gray didn’t want Mary subjected to the sights and sounds of illness. So Clifford had to go — voluntarily, lest he wonder why Gray wanted him gone.
    “I’ll not leave just yet.” Gray stifled a yawn. “Lady Stafford was chirping about a reed bunting last evening, but I’m not sure what the beast is. As long as I’m here, I might as well look it up.” He cocked his head as if puzzled. “You look a bit green around the gills, Clifford. Do you feel all right?”
    “Are you implying that I can’t hold my wine?” Clifford straightened so fast he nearly toppled over.
    “Of course not. Only the veriest greenling would fall ill from a little wine, and you are far beyond that age. But it appears that supper did not agree with you. Oxbridge rarely serves decent food, but tonight was the worst I’ve tasted. The lobster patties were so greasy, I was bilious after only four. And I could swear the pickled herring was spoilt. Who serves herring at a ball, anyway? So déclassé . It positively reeked, and one piece was actually green.” He heard Mary choke. “Of course, Oxbridge’s catering is ambrosia compared to that inn I was stranded at last month. The fish had gone quite off, and I swear the stew was at least a week old. Mutton and lumps of rancid fat. Three men shot the cat in the taproom. Horrible mess. And the smell! I nearly lost my own dinner.”
    Clifford’s face had turned greener with each word. He swallowed rapidly, then tried to speak, but a loud belch erupted. Snapping his jaw shut, he bolted. Gray hoped he made it outside.
    “Time for you to return to the ballroom,” he told Mary. “It is dangerous to slip away as you do.”
    “Clifford would never hurt me.”
    “No. He is far too proper to seduce an innocent. But being found alone with him would force marriage, whether you liked it or not. And believe me, with him, you would not.”
    “That was most unsporting of you,” she complained, but her eyes twinkled.
    “It was the fastest way to be rid of him.”
    Her scowl dissolved into peals of laughter. “Oh, but you were brilliant. He is so very stodgy. However did he become foxed at a ball?”
    “Probably evading his mother. She is pressing him to settle the succession. Have you met Lady Clifford?”
    “I don’t believe so.”
    “She makes Lady Horseley seem frivolous. More rigid than Clifford and a Tartar as well. The man will be shackled by summer. But come. You must return.” He cracked the door to see whether the hallway was clear, then hustled her toward the ladies’ retiring room.
    The strains of a waltz floated from the ballroom, allowing him to relax. The dance was still so controversial that everyone gathered to cast envious or censorious looks at the participants. Thus no one would notice them.
    The moment Mary was safe, he sought his carriage. She’d been right. He should