Page 11 of A Deviant Spinster for the Duke (The Gentlemen’s Club #3)
CHAPTER ELEVEN
V aleria had not realized what thirsty work an education in flirtation and courtship rituals could be. They had graduated from the armchair, now situated at the far end of the drawing room, by the French doors that led out onto the terrace.
Duncan had opened the doors to allow a breath of cool night air in, and Valeria let the refreshing breeze wash over her face as she gulped a mouthful of crisp water.
“Apologies for the intrusion, miss, but do I know you?” Duncan asked, arms folded behind his back, highlighting the muscle of his broad chest. He had not dressed up for the occasion, his waistcoat open, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his tailcoat and cravat nowhere to be seen.
Valeria swallowed the mouthful of water. “I do not believe we have been acquainted,” she said, forcing softness into her voice. “Though, I daresay I have noticed you.”
“As I have noticed you,” he replied, smiling. “Might I put a name to the face I have admired from afar?”
She took a breath, remembering all she had learned thus far. Throughout the past couple of hours that she had been there with him, he had taught her that gaining a man’s attention was rather like forging a chain. The first link was to keep pleasantries interesting. The second link was holding that interest. The third was gaining an invitation to dance or converse in greater depth. The fourth was where she could allow her personality to come out more, gauging the man’s response and deciding if it was worth her time. The fifth link was about acquiring confirmation that the gentleman would call upon her.
“If you like him, do not let him leave your side without that confirmation,” Duncan had insisted. “Do not be forceful, of course, but demand a second encounter if you enjoyed the first. You will find that conversation and being confident in revealing who you are is far easier in a less fraught situation. Over tea, you can truly be yourself.”
“Perhaps, that is why I have been so disappointed in the men I have met,” she had replied wryly. “I have never made it to that second meeting.”
“Oh, but I should hate to ruin the mystery for you,” she said, lowering her gaze. “If I were to ask you to guess my name, it might make you linger here a while longer.”
Duncan chuckled softly. “Diana? Aphrodite? Venus? I know I must be close, for a goddess like you could only possess a divine name.”
“I fear my mother and father did not dare to tempt fate,” she replied, relaxing into the flow of the conversation. “If one is named for beauty, one is guaranteed to be plain. It is a truth, well-known.”
He tilted his head to one side. “So, you think yourself beautiful?”
“I think you saw something in me that brought you over here, but what that was, I could not say. I would not put words in your mouth,” she said, blushing a little. “Indeed, I would much rather it was my wit and charm that compelled you to speak to me.”
Duncan’s eyes gleamed in the low light. “I confess, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”
He offered out his hand, and when she placed hers in his, he raised it to his lips. The soft kiss startled her, making her realize that she was not wearing her gloves. The brush of his lips against her bare skin was the shock and delight of leaping into a cold lake in the height of summer.
He peered up at her, his lips still pressed to her skin. “As for your wit and charm—I look forward to finding it as magnificent as your beauty.” He slowly released her hand. “I am Duncan Lock, Duke of Thornhill.”
“Miss Valeria Maxwell,” she half-gasped, suddenly dizzy.
“Valeria… A name as resplendent as the lady it belongs to. I knew it would be divine,” he said in a silky voice that made her feel unmoored for a moment. “I am glad it is no longer a mystery, for I would not be able to do this if I was not introduced.”
Her breath caught. “Do what, Your Grace?”
“Ask you if you would do me the singular honor of dancing the next set with me?”
She wished she had something to fan her face with, almost forgetting that they were not really at a ball, and his flirtations were not real. They were an exercise, a lesson to help her find a husband. Yet, for an instant, she longed to dance with him. It had been so long since she had danced with anyone, and she had never danced with a gentleman so… interesting.
“I would be delighted,” she hurried to say.
But instead of taking her hand and leading her into a dance, Duncan clapped his hands together, a grin spreading across his unfairly handsome face. “I do believe you now stand a chance, Miss Maxwell. That was faultless.”
He wandered away to the drinks table, pouring out two glasses of something dark. In the glow of the firelight, it shone ruby red.
“You have earned this,” he said, walking back to her, offering one of the glasses.
She pulled a face. “I told you; I do not want to imbibe.”
“Pretend I am someone you like,” he replied, irreverence dancing in his eyes as he put the glass into her hand… and moved on to the end of the room, stepping out onto the terrace.
Valeria sniffed the drink. Port. Heady and rich with a scent that reminded her of winter and far-off shores she had only visited in her wildest daydreams.
Uncertain of what to do, she made her hesitant approach to the French doors, closing her eyes as the cool breeze caressed feverish cheeks.
“You see,” Duncan said, his back to her, “this is so much better than a mere list. That would have taken no effort at all.”
She frowned at the back of his head, where his wavy hair curled at the nape of his neck. “Is it better, though?”
“What do you mean?” He glanced over his shoulder, his dark blue eyes inviting her to come closer.
“Whilst I appreciate the lesson, and I have learned some things, I am still not certain I like the purpose,” she replied, staying put. To be near him was to become breathless and disoriented again, blurring the border between imagination and reality.
He laughed softly. “Marriage, you mean?”
“Not explicitly,” she countered, skirting around behind him to reach a stone bench a short distance away. “Rather, that I must do so much to attract gentlemen I am unlikely to respect, that I must do so much to separate the wheat from the chaff.”
When all I have encountered across seven years is chaff, she neglected to add, suddenly disheartened despite the success of the past few hours.
Duncan tilted his head up to the night sky. “It is like anything in life—the toil and preparation that guarantees triumph. If you want to be married, that is the cost. Unless, of course, you choose an arrangement, but that comes with its own share of difficulties. Marrying a stranger, unsure of character, temperament, etcetera.”
She eyed him, wondering what he knew of toil and preparation. As far as she could tell, he lived life like someone who had never heard of the word ‘difficulty.’ He did as he pleased, exploiting the title of ‘Duke’ however he saw fit, applying no seriousness to his behavior. What did someone who had been handed everything understand about sacrifice?
“I have not had the charmed existence you might think,” he said with a half-smile, as if he could read her mind. “That is why I am the way I am, but no more…”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
He turned to look at her, raising his glass to his lips to sip before he spoke. “I will most likely be attending the events that you must attend to find your husband, so you shall have me close by if you need a reminder of your lessons.” He took another, deeper sip. “You see, I am also coming to the end of my liberty. Henceforth, I shall be searching for a bride.”
It was not the answer to the question she had intended; more curious about why he had apparently not had a charmed existence, and why that had made him the way he was. But all additional questions faded at his declaration, swept away by a bizarre sensation that sat like a rock in the center of her chest.
A pang of something she had felt before, year on year, for a very different reason: a wrench of disappointment.
She shook her head to dislodge the feeling, clearing her throat and her mind of that unwelcome clog. “May the best flirt win,” she said, a note too brightly, raising her glass.
He smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. “First to the altar gains bragging rights.”
“I shall toast to that.” She pretended to tip her glass toward his, and promptly gulped down the entire contents, desperately trying not to cough as the potent liquor hit the back of her throat.
Anything to rid her mind of that troubling disappointment, as it attempted to creep back in again.
“I should be leaving,” she said abruptly, leaving her glass on the bench as the port’s warmth slipped down into her belly.
Duncan nodded, adding a fresh prickle to her disappointment. “Yes, you probably should. I would not want anyone at your own residence wondering why you are returning in a gentleman’s carriage in the small hours of the morning.”
“Oh, I would not worry about that,” she said without thinking, for Mrs. Mitford slept at her own cottage in the village, and the butler could sleep through a thunderstorm. There was no one else there to miss her.
He raised an eyebrow. “No? You are welcome to stay, if you would prefer?” A smirk played upon his lips. “In your own chambers, of course.”
“I think not.” Standing and smoothing down the front of her dress, Valeria retreated inside. “Do I leave the same way I came in?”
Duncan followed her into the drawing room. “I shall escort you.”
“There is no need,” she insisted, grabbing her cloak and throwing it around her shoulders, struggling to tie a knot at her throat as her fingers trembled.
Duncan approached her slowly, as one might a startled horse, and gently closed his hands around hers. With warmth in his eyes, he removed her hands from the task and took over.
She swallowed thickly as his fingertips grazed her throat while he fashioned the knot, watching the concentration on his face, entirely too aware of how close he was.
“There,” he said, taking hold of her hood and bringing it up over her head. “You are a thief in the night once more.”
She took a shaky breath. “I am no thief, for I have stolen nothing.” She met his shining gaze. “ You, on the other hand…”
“Me?” He dipped his head, his eyes flitting to her lips. “What is it that I have stolen, may I ask?”
She forced herself to step back, out of danger. “Several hours of my time and what remained of my dignity,” she retorted, putting as much irritation into her voice as she could muster. “I look forward to beating you to the altar.”
She skirted past him, her heart thundering and her breaths shallow as she hurried on through the drawing room door, retracing her steps through the entrance hall and a labyrinth of corridors to reach the servants’ exit. Indeed, as she burst back out into the cool night and ran along the faint path, she could not get away from Thornhill Grange, and the duke it belonged to, fast enough.