Page 13 of A Deviant Spinster for the Duke (The Gentlemen’s Club #3)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

D uncan was well aware of the stir he was causing as he rode slowly down the wide path, swaying to the rhythm of his proud black stallion, so in harmony with his mount that he did not need to hold the reins.

He loved nothing more than to gallop through Hyde Park in the summer sunshine, but there were too many people wandering about, and the last thing he wanted was to accidentally run anyone down. Still, there was enjoyment enough in a plodding walk, feeling countless eyes upon him.

My duchess will have to know how to ride well, he mused. Someone with a sense of adventure. Someone who would not mind causing a bit of a scandal now and then.

He pulled sharply on the reins as a figure raced out into the path, startling the stallion. A dark-haired waif with some manner of ball in her hands, who shot a disapproving look at Duncan, as if he was the one who had done something wrong.

“Be careful where you are riding,” the young woman snapped, as another figure hurried to join her, pulling her out of the way.

Duncan’s eyebrows rose in pleasant surprise. “Miss Maxwell, is that you?”

“If you named her, then you know well enough who she is,” the dark-haired girl retorted, in a tone that Duncan did not appreciate.

He narrowed his eyes at the young woman, saying nothing. Rather, he continued to stare at her, hardening his expression, adopting the steely look he rarely had reason to use. He was infamous for being carefree and unserious, but those who had experienced his infrequent wrath were well aware that he had an intimidating streak.

The girl’s throat bobbed, and, after a moment, she dropped her gaze. She did not look his way again, fidgeting uncomfortably.

“You are fortunate that you appear to be a friend to Miss Maxwell,” he said, sliding down from the saddle. “If you were not known to her, there would be no leniency.”

Valeria stood in front of the girl. “I apologize, Your Grace. She was playing a game; she was not watching where she was going. She meant no harm.”

“I hope not.” He flashed a cold smile at the girl, thawing it as he turned his attention back to Valeria. “I did not expect to see you in London, Miss Maxwell. I assume you must have received the avalanche of invitations that I did.”

Valeria nodded. “Something like that.”

She looked beautiful in the hazy afternoon light, like a dream. Her dress was simple and somewhat outdated, with a faint scar of repair at the sleeve, but it was her fiery hair and exquisite face that lent her an intangible elegance.

“Perhaps, if our paths should cross again, we might dance at last,” he said brazenly, picturing her in his drawing room.

He had wanted to dance with her then, to complete the courtship ritual they had begun as part of her lesson. He had wanted to pull her to him, performing the kind of waltz that would make the King himself faint at the scandal of it. He had wanted to continue playing the game of courtship with her all night, disappointed when she had decided to leave.

In truth, he had struggled since that night. He found her wandering into his thoughts without warning, more often than he liked to admit. In the week or so that had passed since their last encounter, he had attended one dinner party and one soirée, and had barely spoken to any of the women present.

Not so promising for a gentleman who is in want of a wife.

The problem was simple: none of them had intrigued him or captured his interest as much as this woman before him. He had not even been compelled enough to have a dalliance, leaving both gatherings early and alone.

“I… shall consider it,” Valeria replied, to the suggestion he had forgotten he had made.

The dark-haired girl pulled a face but kept her opinion to herself.

“Do you ride, Miss Maxwell?” Duncan asked, ignoring the girl.

Valeria peered up at the magnificent stallion, her lips quirking into a nervous smile. Before he could warn her of his horse’s penchant for biting, she put her hand out to the creature… and the stallion nuzzled his nose into her palm, snorting with contentment.

“I love to,” she said in a faraway voice, her eyes creasing at the corners with something like sadness. “I had two mares who were very dear to me, but… I rarely had the opportunity to ride them, so I relinquished them.”

Duncan frowned. “That is… noble of you.” He willed her to look at him. “Would you care to ride Zeus?”

“Pardon?” she gasped, glancing around as if she had done something awful.

“I shall hold the reins, do not worry.”

He could tell she was tempted as she returned her attention to the horse, running her hand up and down the stallion’s nose, stroking him gently. Even the rude girl beside Valeria seemed encouraging, giving Valeria a nudge in the ribs.

“You should,” the girl urged. “What a treat that would be!”

A moment later, Valeria shook her head. “I am not suitably attired, Your Grace, and I believe my friends and I were shortly about to leave.” She dipped her head to Duncan, all coldness and stiff propriety. “Enjoy your ride. He is a beautiful stallion.”

With one last stroke of the horse’s nose, Valeria grabbed the dark-haired miscreant by the arm and ushered her back across the path. Duncan followed Valeria’s departure, noticing the picnic beneath the tree. A pleasant scene that he would not have minded joining.

And why should I not?

Wrapping the reins loosely around his hand, he led Zeus to the gathering of ladies.

“Lockie!” Amelia cheered, shooting to her feet. “Oh, my goodness, Lionel will be so disappointed to have missed you! Are you in London for long? I know he will want to see you.”

It appeared that Valeria had forgotten that Duncan was well acquainted with her friends—their husbands, at least, though he had visited Edmund and Lionel’s houses enough to know most of the ladies in a friendly capacity.

“I am here for the foreseeable,” Duncan replied, ignoring the prickle of heat that burned into the side of his head. The source: Valeria’s sharp glare.

Evidently, she had assumed that he would continue on with his afternoon without stopping to greet the others.

Amelia clapped her hands together. “How splendid! Daniel will be thrilled. He asks about you so very often, wondering when ‘Robin Hood’ will be coming to visit again. For months, he slept with that bow and arrow you gave him.”

“One day, I hope to teach him how to shoot a real one,” Duncan replied. “With your permission, of course.”

Amelia pulled a worried face. “I suppose it would do no harm for him to learn from an expert, though that ‘one day’ will have to be many years from now.”

“We must have a dinner.” Isolde swooped in, all smiles. “This week, perhaps? All of us together. Joseph will be sick with envy if Daniel gets to see you and he does not. They can retire to bed a little later, if we have an early dinner. What do you say?”

Duncan glanced at Valeria, who had turned rather red in the afternoon heat, and would not look at him. “I would be delighted. I trust that Miss Maxwell will be in attendance, too?”

Valeria blinked, meeting his gaze with a panicked gleam in her eyes.

Do you think I will tell them of our clandestine lessons? Come now, you ought to know me better than that. He held his tongue, hoping that his face relayed the message instead.

“We would not leave her out,” Isolde said with a laugh, as if that should have been obvious.

Rebecca raised a desperate hand. “I will be there too, Your Grace. Mercy, it will be so nice to dine with familiar faces, instead of fighting through conversation with strangers. I feel as if I am saying the same things over and over, and it is most infuriating.”

“Alas, that is the nature of society dinners,” Duncan replied with a sympathetic smile. “I am certain there is a book of inane questions somewhere that many of these people read, spooling them out at every party and gathering.”

Rebecca nodded eagerly. “I quite agree! If I must tell another gentleman my age, my parentage, and my residence again, I shall scream. Then, there are the gentlemen who compliment my perfume when I am not wearing any. I swear they are just reciting from a rehearsed script.”

“Or you smell very good,” Duncan offered, laughing. His gaze drifted to Valeria, remembering the scent of her: soap and clean linen and cool spring nights.

Rebecca snorted. “That might be true, but they are never close enough to know. It is hopeless, truly.”

“And I shall be there too,” Teresa said more quietly, her gaze lowered. “If my brother allows it. Indeed, I was hoping to speak with you—you never did send those volumes you promised. The Norse tomes.”

Duncan smacked a hand against his forehead. “You are quite right, Lady Teresa. I shall write to my staff at Thornhill this very afternoon and have the books sent to my townhouse. I assure you, I will not attend dinner without them in my hands, for your diligent perusal.”

He knew Vincent’s sisters better than the rest, from summers spent at the Grayling Estate in his youth. Indeed, he had practically watched them grow up, which ruled them out completely in his search for a bride. Lionel’s sister, too.

Teresa blushed with delight, flashing a shy smile at him. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

He knew it was not the blush of someone with an infatuation, not unless the affection pertained to mythical stories written in a language that so few understood. That was Teresa’s true love, and they would soon be reunited.

“What will you send for me?” Prudence muscled in, not one to be left out. “I do not see why these debutantes should get everything, while I am left gasping for attention.”

Duncan chuckled. “I doubt you have ever been short of attention, Lady Prudence. Nevertheless, how would candied fruits serve you?”

“A whole box?” Prudence prodded.

“If I am not tempted to eat half first.”

The younger girl grinned. “Perfection! I accept!”

“And who might you be?” Duncan turned a cooler gaze on the dark-haired young lady who had nearly reared his horse. “I do not believe we have been introduced.”

The young lady smiled frostily. “Not introduced, no, but I know who you are.” She paused. “I am Beatrice Johnson. Cousin of dear Valeria, and defender of her honor and integrity.”

“You think I pose a threat to such things?” he replied bluntly, taking an instant dislike to the girl.

Beatrice shrugged. “If rumor is true, absolutely.”

“Beatrice!” Valeria chided abruptly, her cheeks now a vivid shade of raspberry. “That is no way to speak to a duke, nor one who is such a friend to our group.”

Beatrice cast a smile at her cousin. “Forgive me, I did not realize he was of such importance.” She looked back at Duncan, her eyes harboring a fierce warning that surpassed her youthful years. “I must have mistaken you for someone else.”

Had it not been for the obvious adoration that Beatrice had for her cousin, Duncan would have been tempted to scold her in a way that would ensure no repetition. But, in the same way that he would not harm a guard dog for defending its owner, he found he could not punish Beatrice for her rudeness.

She is protective. That is a good thing. That is how family should behave.

Besides, he was not oblivious to his reputation.

“Yes, Miss Johnson, I believe you must have me mistaken,” he replied instead, in an even tone. “Dinner it is, then. I look forward to seeing you all, and I promise I shall have those tomes delivered, and that box of candied fruit waiting. Anything for you, Miss Johnson?”

Beatrice glared at him. “Nothing material.” Her expression softened for a moment. “Actually, maybe you might bring your horse, so my cousin can enjoy that ride. I may partake too, if you are not averse.”

“Consider it done,” he said, patting the stallion’s muscular neck.

With that, the picnic party broke up. Amelia and Isolde began fretting over their children, who had been left in the care of their fathers and grandmothers, which spurred the rest into action. Blankets and baskets were gathered up, Duncan helping where he could, and it was not long before the ladies were on their way.

Offering his farewells, Duncan hung back for a moment, his attention trained upon Valeria. Seeing her toward the rear of the group, pausing to pick up a fork that had been waylaid in the grass, he seized his opportunity.

Using Zeus to conceal them from nosey members of society who might see them, Duncan caught Valeria by the hand and pulled her to him. Her back bumped against his chest, a sharp breath catching in her throat.

Dropping his head, he whispered close to her ear, “Come to me tonight. My townhouse.” He murmured the address, inhaling the sweet, soap scent of her skin. “Perhaps, you might wear something red.”

“What?” she gasped, breathing hard.

“It catches a man’s eye,” he replied, smiling. “You would look lovely in it. Dark red. The color of port.”

Valeria yanked her arm out of his grip, whirling around with fury in her eyes. “Do not presume to tell me what to do, Your Grace,” she shot back in a hushed voice.

He smiled in return. “Is that not exactly what you have begged me to do?”

Her mouth opened in protest, her smoldering eyes burning hotter, her hands balling into fists at her sides. But she seemed to realize that he had told no lie, as her mouth closed again. Blushing furiously, muttering things under her breath that he could only guess at, she turned on her heel and strode away from him, hurrying to catch up to the other women.

He watched her go, and though he had a full calendar and more invitations than he knew what to do with, he sensed he would look forward to nothing as much as he was already looking forward to that night.