Page 1 of A Deviant Spinster for the Duke (The Gentlemen’s Club #3)

CHAPTER ONE

“ I can tell you enjoy this music,” the dull voice said. “You cannot help but sway to it, though I have not yet urged you to dance with me. I do believe you are trying to tempt me, Miss Maxwell.”

Tempt you?

Valeria glanced at the gentleman in front of her, having half-forgotten that he was standing there. “I do not know that ‘urging’ someone is the appropriate way to ask for a dance, nor that you should use such incendiary language as ‘tempting,’ as if I have any intent toward you.” She sighed. “Perhaps, I am swaying to this very fine music because I would rather dance with myself, undisturbed. There is no temptation whatsoever.”

The gentleman chuckled, though she did not miss the tightness of uncertainty that choked the sound, as if he had not quite decided if she was jesting or not.

“You are rather amusing for a woman,” he said.

“Ah, it is curious to me how often I have been described as ‘amusing’, when what a gentleman really means to say is ‘strange’ or ‘unbecoming.’ I do wonder why you are not simply honest, to spare us both the trouble of skirting around a mutual disinterest.”

He blinked at that, his smile stiffening. “Pardon?”

“I am five-and-twenty,” she replied evenly. “You are at least a decade older. There are countless younger ladies at this ball, yet you have chosen to approach me . It reeks of desperation, of coercion and insistence from an external force. Your mother or father, I assume. They have nudged you toward me because, at my age, I must also be desperate—is that not so?”

He seemed frozen, his mouth agape as though she had struck him with her palm instead of the obvious truth.

“I am sure you are very pleasant,” she continued with a sigh. “I am sure that you will make some anxious wallflower a fine husband, but I am bored of this rigmarole. Go on and flatter some other lady who will appreciate your efforts.”

As she had suspected he might, the gentleman transformed before her eyes. One moment, he was smiling and all politeness; the next, he wore a scowl that twisted any of his handsomeness into something cold and ugly.

“You ought to be grateful for my attention,” he hissed, his cheeks reddening with the source of his vitriol: embarrassment. “Do you think I relish the notion of settling for a woman who is past her best? Do you think it was my choice to approach you?”

Valeria rolled her eyes. “You did not listen to a word I said, did you? I already stated that I do not think it was your choice to approach me, which is why I have just urged you to take your attempts at flattery elsewhere.”

He scoffed, the red in his cheeks deepening with each second. “You are… a very rude woman, Miss Maxwell. Rude, unbecoming, and yes, very strange indeed. I should not have wasted a moment on you.”

“That is what I was saying!” she replied, adding a stifled groan.

It was the same at every ball or gathering where she encountered these sorts of gentlemen; they simply did not listen to her, even when she was trying to save them from misplacing their attention and effort. They had to believe that the idea of them abandoning their suit was somehow theirs, too appalled by the notion that they were being rejected to permit it.

“If you were younger, perhaps your attitude might be more acceptable, but you are far too old to behave as if you have options,” the man retorted—resorting, as they always did, to what they thought might wound her.

What they did not realize was that she was more or less impervious after seven years in society. Seven years of disappointments, seven years of balls and parties and dinners and soirées that left her hollow and exasperated by the state of the marriageable male population. Seven years of discovering that she preferred to spend such evenings in the company of her two dearest friends, who were a guarantee of a joyful time, where she did not have to be anything other than herself.

The trouble was, those two friends were married now. Wives and mothers: two roles that had no choice but to push the title of ‘friend’ down the list of priorities.

“Are you satisfied?” Valeria asked the gentleman with a patient smile.

He baulked. “Pardon?”

“Do you feel as if you have chided me enough to maintain your pride?” She tilted her head to one side. “If so, you may leave.”

For a moment, he looked like he might explode with the outrage that burned in his face, his eyes ablaze with fury. His mouth opened and closed as though he meant to launch into a scathing tirade, but no sound emerged. She had shocked his throat into silence and, as such, he turned sharply on his heel and marched off without a word.

She exhaled wearily in the peace of his absence, wishing fervently that Isolde and Amelia—her dearest friends in all the world—were there to laugh and chatter with. She did not blame them for putting their children and husbands before society events and keeping her company, but it did not stop her from missing them terribly.

I should visit. I should abandon London and visit. I should spend a month with Amelia, and a month with Isolde. It was a lovely thought, soundly disrupted by her father appearing at her side, a nervous hand coming to rest on her shoulder.

“Valery…” he said quietly, his voice laced with worry.

“I know, I know,” she replied, shaking her head.

“You cannot be so… stern with them, my dear,” Aaron urged. “I do not think you realize how intimidating you can be. If you were to… soften yourself just a little, I think it would be to your benefit.”

Valeria could not look at him. It was the only thing that could injure her, to hear her father asking her to change who she was and how she behaved. For five-and-twenty years, she had grown accustomed to the luxury of being herself; she was finding it difficult to adapt to performing a role that did not fit, like wearing too-tight shoes that pinched and hobbled her.

“There was nothing so wrong with him, was there?” her father prompted, withdrawing his hand.

“He was inappropriate,” she insisted, her gaze drifting to the dance floor of Lord and Lady Mawdesley’s ballroom.

The gentleman in question had already found a replacement—a shy young thing in a pale pink gown—and was waiting with her on the periphery until the last set finished. He glanced back over his shoulder, finding Valeria’s stare. Turning up his nose, he flashed her one more glare before he returned his attention to his new partner.

“He said I was trying to tempt him,” she added, shaking off her displeasure.

Her father sighed. “It sounds as if he was trying to flirt with you, my dear girl. A little flirtation is not inappropriate; it should be encouraging.”

“You were not there. You cannot understand the nuances as I do, after experiencing them these past seven years,” she replied. “I know when a gentleman is well-intentioned and when he is not. He saw me as easy prey, that is all, directed by his parents.”

Aaron turned his face away, pretending to observe a conversation between gentlemen happening on the other side of the grand ballroom, near to the garden doors.

Out of the corner of her eye, Valeria saw his throat bob, a muscle tensed in his jaw.

“I know this is hard for you,” he murmured, his voice thick. “You should not have to behave differently. You should not have to do anything you do not wish to do.”

Valeria’s heart ached for her father. She weaved her arm through his, forgetting the unpleasantness of her encounter with that man, forgetting her annoyance at the situation. Nothing mattered more to her than her father. Her family. It had been just the two of them for five-and-ten years, and it pained her to see him in distress, especially when she could alleviate it.

“I have never learned to be lenient with suitors,” she told him in earnest. “That is my deficit, but I will improve. I know that I must. I know what it means for this Season to be a success, at last, for me. I promise, Papa, I will do better.”

“But you should not have to,” he whispered, almost to himself. “It is all my fault. I am so very sorry, Valery.”

She hugged his arm to her. “There is no need to apologize, nor do I blame you. You are right that I must learn to be softer. I should have learned that long ago. It is my duty to wed, not to battle against it. I have delayed enough; I cannot delay anymore.”

She willed him to look at her, but he would not. He continued to stare toward the garden doors as if he might find a solution in the glinting panes and the shadows of cypress trees beyond, his demeanor heavy, his shoulder sagging under the weight of his dismay.

“I am used to reacting in a certain way,” she continued, “and it takes time to undo the habits of so many years. I assure you, I am working on becoming a slightly different version of myself. More palatable.”

He turned at last, his eyes shining with sadness. “I do not deserve a daughter like you.”

“Nonsense,” she replied. “Come, let us have some refreshment, and then I shall venture back into the crowds and begin again, with a smile upon my face and nothing but charming humor and flattery upon my tongue.”

She adopted one such smile as she looked at him, hoping to cheer his spirits. When he was sad, she felt it too, and could not bear it when he was depressed. It reminded her of bygone days that she would sooner forget, when he wandered their home like a ghost. If she could help it, she would never allow that to happen again, for any reason.

“I truly do not deserve you,” he said, allowing her to lead him from the ballroom to the refreshments.

And though they sipped punch and ate sweet delicacies from the vast array that were displayed on the refreshment tables, chuckling over the inebriated condition of three very young gentlemen, resuming some semblance of normality, Valeria knew it could not and would not last.

Their situation was dire, and it would not be gone by morning, nor any day soon if she did not act. Indeed, their very future relied upon her. If that meant being the silent, eyelash-fluttering, doll of a woman that gentlemen desired to marry, then so be it—that was what, from now on, she would be.

I will save us, Papa. No matter what it costs me.

She observed a small cluster of doll-like young ladies who gossiped nearby, hoping for inspiration.

“No, no, he is here! I saw him myself,” one whispered excitedly.

“You would do well to ignore him,” another replied tartly. “No good can come of even looking at that rogue.”

The first sighed. “How can one not look? He is… divine.”

“He is the very opposite,” the second chided. “Just a dance with him would be enough to mar your reputation.”

The third young woman leaned in close to her two friends. “But would it not be worth it, just to be so close to such a man? Goodness, I read the scandal sheets, and I know I should be appalled, but I find myself…”

“Utterly jealous?” the first blurted out, descending into giddy giggles.

“Precisely!” the third woman said, grinning, while the dour-faced second rolled her eyes.

“What am I to do with the pair of you? You will end up in the scandal sheets yourselves if you are not careful. If I must chain you up to save you, I shall.”

The first sighed. “Oh, what a pleasure it would be to be his wife. There can be no scandal if a marriage quickly follows.”

“Yes, but he is not the marrying kind,” the second pointed out. “If he married every lady he… dallied with, he would have an entire herd of wives. Yet, he remains unwed. That ought to tell you everything you need to know about the fellow.”

Valeria did not know who they were talking about, but he sounded wretched. Definitely a gentleman that she ought to avoid if she was to stand a chance of marrying before the end of the Season, for her reputation could not take any further diminishing. She had not done anything dishonorable or scandalous, of course, but her value had depreciated with age and her acerbic tongue.

“If you do not make a suitable—I repeat, suitable— match, you will have to marry a baronet and live an impoverished existence, scraping together coins for a mere bonnet,” the second lady warned, and though it was directed at her friends, it struck Valeria too.

“Might you excuse me for a moment, Papa?” she asked, suddenly too warm, the air in the room too stifling. Every breath felt like she was trying to inhale thick cream into her lungs.

Aaron raised a worried eyebrow. “Are you well?”

“Quite well,” she lied. “I just need to powder my nose.”

His expression relaxed a little. “I will wait for you here.”

She smiled and headed back out into the hallway, though she did not turn right toward the powder room, but left, back into the ballroom. Weaving around the other merrymakers, keeping her head down, she did not stop until she reached the garden doors.

The first kiss of cool night air caressed her feverish cheeks, and as she moved quickly across the terrace and down the steps into the shadows of the garden proper, each breath became easier.

She slowed as she passed the towering cypress trees, standing like slumbering sentinels along the main gravel path that cut through the garden, the white stones reflecting the moonlight. The scent was remarkable, earthy and exotic, reminding her of far-off places she had never been to. Nostalgia for countries she had only dreamed about.

In a daze, focusing on nothing but the steady draw of her breathing and the aroma of the trees, she did not pay much attention to where she was walking. As such, she did not realize quite how far she had wandered until she felt the heel of her shoe sink into mud instead of gravel.

Oh, for pity’s sake! That is the last thing I need—to be the girl traipsing muck through the Mawdesley’s residence. She paused to see what could be done, trying her best to scrape away the mud on a tuft of grass.

At that moment, she heard voices, muffled by the foliage and the rustle of wind through the leaves. Low, secretive murmurings, coming from somewhere nearby.

She pricked her ears, trying to make out the words, but the voices were too quiet: one distinctly sweet and feminine, the other rumbling and masculine. The whisper of lovers, perhaps. Certainly, the whispers of two people who did not wish to be overheard or, indeed, discovered.

I ought to leave them be… After all, it was none of her business what other people got up to in the dark, during a ball.

Glancing down the avenue between the cypress trees, squinting toward the lights of the manor house, her heart dropped like a rock as she noted shapes moving in her direction. In the clear moonlight, she spied an all-too familiar headpiece: gaudy feathers bobbing and swaying in the breeze.

Phyllis, Duchess of Levon, infamous gossip and the sometime bane of Valeria’s existence, with two of her equally nosy friends. And trailing just behind the three matrons, Phyllis’ bitter daughter, Iphigenia, who would relish nothing more than destroying the decency and reputation of another woman. Anything to improve her dwindling chances of finding a husband seven years after her debut, for she and Valeria were in the same predicament.

Wretches, all… Those women were known for patrolling the gardens at a manor ball for scandal, eavesdropping and observing from shady corners, teasing information out of inebriates and those with loose lips. Phyllis, especially, was eager to gain any knowledge that could aid her floundering daughter, eradicating some of the younger competition.

Spurred on by pure instinct, Valeria ducked between two of the cypress trees, seeking out whoever belonged to the furtive voices in the darkness. The woman in the pair evidently did not know the danger she was in, unaware that she needed to protect herself.

So, if that woman could not defend herself against the harpies coming in her direction, Valeria would just have to do it for her.