Page 84 of A Wicked Game

Morgan snorted. “Not according to Harriet.”

“What was her objection? We’re rich. Titled. Impossibly good-looking. Well,Iam,” Rhys amended. “You two are only slightly better than average, if we’re being honest.”

“Modest too,” Gryff drawled, laughing. “Don’t forget modest.”

“She objected,” Morgan said, ignoring their byplay, “because she didn’t believe me when I said I loved her.”

Both brothers blinked as if this was the stupidest thing they’d ever heard.

“Oh, you must havereallybuggered up your proposal,” Rhys said with relish. “You’ve been in love with her for years.”

“I knew it the day she whacked you with a sword,” Gryff said.

“It was a branch,” Morgan corrected. “And I didn’t think it was that obvious.”

“Was to us. We’re your brothers.” Gryff shrugged. “I didn’t thinkyouknew, though.”

“What? That I loved her?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I didn’t really,” Morgan confessed. “Not until I was stuck in that stinking French prison and started thinking about all the things I regretted. Not seeing Harriet again was pretty high up on the list. She’s the most frustrating woman alive, but I realized I couldn’t live without her.”

Gryff leaned over and gave him a brotherly whack on the shoulder. “Welcome to the club.”

Rhys, however, frowned. “Why are you still smiling if she refused you?” He peered at Morgan closely. His eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute. I know that look. It’s the glassy-eyed, satisfied look of a man who’s been well and truly pleasured.” His tone became accusing. “You slept with her, didn’t you?”

“A gentleman never—”

“Bloody hell, Morgan!” Gryff thundered, not even waiting for him to finish.

“Itoldyou he would, didn’t I?” Rhys groaned. “What did I say?”

Morgan held up his hands. “I’m smiling because Harriet’s given me a week to prove to her that I love her.”

Rhys wrinkled his nose. “A week? That’s not very long. And how the hell do you show a woman you love her? Flowers? Jewels? Coach-and-four?”

Morgan smiled. “I don’t know about any woman, but I do know Harriet. She said my love for her is as real as one of the made-up streets on her maps.”

“So what are you going to do to prove otherwise?”

“Make it real, of course.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

If Morgan was trying to prove his love, Harriet thought as she glared at him across Lady Bressingham’s garden three days later, he was doing a terrible job of it.

She’d seen him at Lady Stevenson’s musicale two days ago, and he hadn’t even spoken to her. He’d simply sent her a friendly nod across the room and gone back to conversing with Letty Pickworth, a merry widow with a fortune as impressive as her cleavage.

Harriet had told herself she didn’t care.

Now she’d been here, wandering around Lady Bressingham’s garden for over an hour, and the blasted man hadn’t even come over to greet her. He’d caught her eye—once—across the croquet lawn and sent her one of his patented secret smiles that managed to turn her knees to jelly, but he’d made no effort to approach. There he stood, looking unreasonably handsome in a dark gray coat and buff breeches, chatting casually with De Montfort, the two of them as thick as thieves.

Harriet fanned herself, both irked and confused as to why he seemed to be ignoring her. Perhaps he’d changed his mind, and decided that proving his love was too great a task?

Or perhaps he didn’t love her at all.

Her heart gave an unpleasant little squeeze.

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