The Earl's Wager by Rebecca Thomas

appearance, nor his perfect diction, nor his unflappable demeanor. Behind his unruffled facade was an arrogant peer who considered himself above her.
    He cleared his throat. “If we are speaking of clothing, then I think we should discuss the dress you’re wearing. While it may be acceptable in America, here in England, it’s not the preferable style.”
    “What style is that?” She decided she wanted his staid countenance to crack. She wanted to wrinkle his perfectly crisp shirt and yank the knotted cravat from its hold to see exactly how he might react, but instead she just sighed.
    “What’s wrong, Miss Duvall? Have I offended you?”
    “Why would you think I’m offended?” She sipped her water and set the glass back down.
    “Because you sighed.”
    “Did I? Am I not allowed to sigh at a dinner party either?”
    The truth of the matter was that maybe she was offended. Not only by him, but also by herself. Because why she had the sudden urge to mess up his shirt and cravat, and even his hair, was beyond her. It made no sense whatsoever. She didn’t like to annoy Oliver, so why was Will Sutton different?
    “You may sigh at a dinner party, but it’s probably not the best way to attract an eligible gentleman.”
    “No, I suppose not.” She resisted the urge to sigh again.
    “I inquired with a reputable modiste, and I’ve made arrangements for us to see her tomorrow. And, given the state of your current dress, I don’t think we’ve a moment to waste.”
    Instead of sighing in frustration, perhaps she should push the matter a little farther. “You said my dress is not the preferable style. What is not preferable about it?”
    “The fabric looks quite worn. Certainly you might like something new?”
    “No.” She sat up straighter, leaning forward at the same time. “Actually, I like the fabric quite well.” Glancing down at her chest, she said, “It’s a fine color for my skin tone.” She looked up at him again and widened her eyes. “Perhaps you are biased against the color is all.”
    “It has nothing to do with the color.” He coughed.
    “But you said the fabric looks—”
    “I said the fabric looks quite worn, but the problem is the size. It doesn’t fit you properly.” He threw down his napkin.
    She innocently blinked several times, feeling a bit smug to see she’d ruffled him. “I see.”
    He pushed back his chair. “I beg your pardon. I neglected to tell the cook we’d like dessert as well so I’m certain you know which utensils to use.”
    In an instant, he departed, and Georgia smiled. Perhaps she was goading him a bit more than necessary, but she had hoped he’d give up this ridiculous plan by now.
    She didn’t like the fluttery feeling he evoked in her, and she didn’t require any kind of lessons—dinner-party etiquette, eating, appropriate conversation, or otherwise. What she required was an old, near-dead husband.
    Instead of fighting the tutoring lessons with Grandleigh, maybe she could get him on her side. It was apparent he didn’t want to give her lessons any more than she wanted them. So if he would agree that Sir Richard was a possible match for her, then together, they could convince Oliver that they suited as well.
    …
    Will needed to remove himself from the dining room, not arrange for dessert. He needed to get his bearings. His project was more troublesome than he could have imagined, and rather than lose his temper in front of her, he needed a private moment to gather his thoughts. He could use counsel from his sister on how to handle this situation. How was he supposed to delicately explain that her dress was too tight? He said it didn’t fit properly—wasn’t that enough? Apparently not, because she kept on and on about it, goading him and poking at his practical sensibilities.
    In fact, why had he let her bother him so much? Maybe because it took every ounce of energy he had not to look at her breasts? He was supposed to be tutoring her on proper dinner