The Double Wager by Mary Balogh

an aging man must be allowed his dreams.”
    “Aging!” she said scornfully.
    “Yes. It seems that my heir has hopes that the, er, exertions of the marriage bed might help me to my grave prematurely. In feet, when his temper cools, I believe he might conclude that this is the best thing that has happened to him in some time.”
    “Don’t be so absurd, Marius,” Suzanne retorted. “It seems that you have been merely toying with my affections. Am I no more than a light-skirts to you?”
    Eversleigh surveyed her haughtily through his quizzing glass. “Suzanne, could it be that you are jealous?” he asked. “Had you expected an offer?”
    She blushed and turned away in annoyance.
    “No, no, you would not enjoy the restrictions of marriage, my dear,” he continued, “especially to me. I should demand fidelity, you see. I believe the late Mr. Broughton was more liberal?”
    “Marius, how positively medieval you are sometimes,” she fumed, turning back to face him across the room. “What possible difference can it make, provided the proprieties are maintained? Fidelity went out of fashion a long age ago. You surely have no intention of remaining faithful to that pathetic little thing you are going to marry, have you? It would be a resolution impossible for you to keep.” She laughed scornfully.
    Eversleigh s lips thinned. “Then you must be grateful that I have not put you in danger of becoming a neglected wife,” he remarked coldly.
    “And do not think that you can come here and comfort yourself in my bed whenever your wife bores you,” Suzanne continued.
    Eversleigh bowed. “You make yourself abundantly clear, ma’am,” he said.
    “Oh, Marius,” she cried suddenly, tears filling her eyes. She rushed across the room and threw her arms around his neck. “Indeed you are making a mistake. You are a very demanding man and I know how to please you. And you satisfy me. How can I find another to match you? What can she offer that I cannot?”
    Eversleigh looked down at her impassioned face through half-closed lids. He did not accept the invitation of her pouted lips. “Amusement,” he replied. “You see, she amuses me, Suzanne.”
    She stared at him blankly and then laughed uncertainly. “She amuses you?” she repeated. “And that is reason for marriage?”
    “An excellent one,” he agreed. “I believe I shall not know a moment’s dullness with Henry.”
    “Henry!” she repeated, revolted.
    * * *
    Later that same evening, Suzanne Broughton and Oliver Cranshawe met at a card party. They gravitated toward each other at suppertime.
    “So, Suzanne,” Cranshawe said, not bothering to charm her with his practiced smile, “my cousin has succeeded in thumbing his nose at both of us, it seems.”
    Suzanne looked haughtily back at him. “You, perhaps,” she agreed, “but how me, pray?”
    “Oh, come, Suzanne,” he said, one corner of his mouth curling into a parody of a smile, “I am perfectly well aware that you were hoping to be the Duchess of Eversleigh. And he did appear to be leading you on, did he not?”
    “I wish him well,” she said with a brittle laugh. “His betrothal affects me not at all.”
    “But, if we could get revenge, my dear, you would not be displeased?” he asked, watching her carefully.
    “Revenge?”
    “I think it is probably too late to prevent the marriage,” Cranshawe admitted. “He would not be persuaded to call it off, and she, little minx, must be over the moon at having ensnared such a catch. But perhaps, Suzanne, we could ensure that it is not a prosperous marriage?” His voice had become soft and insinuating.
    “How so?” she asked, trying to keep her piqued interest out of her eyes and voice.
    “She looks a perfect ninny of a chit, this, er, Henry of his,” Cranshawe said. “Should I get to know her and try what my charm can accomplish?”
    Suzanne looked measuringly at him and then allowed herself to smile. “You are a perfect devil, are you not,