Page 14 of A Deviant Spinster for the Duke (The Gentlemen’s Club #3)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

W hat am I to do? I should not give into his wishes… No, I should stay precisely where I am. Valeria’s thoughts ricocheted back and forth, matching the agitated steps of her relentless pacing.

Outside the sash windows of the Mayfair apartments, darkness had fallen hours ago. Starlight twinkled like fishing boats in the shadowy sea overhead, a half-moon casting a muted silver glow on the world below, while the clock on the mantelpiece did nothing to help her uncertainty. It was almost midnight, and she still could not make up her mind.

I should tuck myself into bed. I should go to sleep. I should make him wait for nothing.

“You should wear something red,” she parroted, scoffing. “I would look awful in red! Any shade of it. The… the… the gall of the man!”

The creak of a floorboard halted her rant, her breath held as she pricked her ears. She waited for the scuff of footfalls in the hallway outside her borrowed bedchamber, but after a few minutes, there was still nothing but silence.

Exhaling, Valeria knew what she had to do. She could not keep pacing all night, at war with herself. If she retired to bed, she would spend the hours until dawn staring at the ceiling, her mind racing. At least if she went to meet with Duncan, the internal conflict would end.

Annoyed that she could not defy his request, she took her cloak from the back of the door and slipped out into the hallway. Fortunately, she had not changed into her nightclothes… which should have been a glaring sign of the decision she would eventually make.

She crept past the doors belonging to her father’s bedchamber and Beatrice’s bedchamber, pausing outside each one until she heard the sound of slumber. Satisfied that no one would catch her in the act, she pressed on to the front door and, grimacing all the while in case the hinges creaked too loudly, she let herself out.

The Mayfair streets were empty as Valeria headed deeper into the affluent area, walking away from the periphery where she undoubtedly belonged, to the grand townhouses of the truly wealthy.

Her heart ached a little as she hurried swiftly past the townhouse that used to be theirs. A pretty, three-story structure in a uniform row. Candlelight flickered in the upstairs room that was once hers—someone was awake at this late hour, and she hoped that, whoever they were, they were grateful for that house; that they would never take it for granted.

Even if I marry, it will not be enough to get that townhouse back. She took a breath. No matter. As long as Skeffington can be saved, that is all I care about. As long as Mrs. Mitford and Mr. Worth retained their employment, and her father was happy in the only home he had ever known, she would be content. Indeed, it was not just a house, but a museum of memory that she refused to hand over to someone else.

By the time she arrived at Duncan’s townhouse, she had been reinvigorated. Of course, she did not like that she was bowing to his command, but his lessons had worked. There was no denying it. If he continued to help her, maybe she really would be married before the end of the summer, and able to rescue Skeffington before the cold months set in.

I should not use the front door, she remembered, just in time.

Searching for a different entrance, she spotted the steps that led down to the cellar. First glancing around to make sure that no one was watching, she hurried down the stairs and pushed gently on the door below, not at all surprised to find that it was unlocked.

Within minutes, she was inside the townhouse and standing a step away from the drawing room door, left suspiciously ajar.

“I can hear you huffing and puffing out there,” came Duncan’s exasperating, smooth voice. As low and powerful and compelling as the crash of waves against a cliff, and likely as dangerous.

She pushed through. “I was not huffing and puffing, though you made me traipse across half of Mayfair alone.”

“ Made you?” He sat by a small table to the side of the room, tying a bow on a box of candied fruit. “I offered an invitation, Miss Maxwell. You did not have to accept it.”

Valeria frowned at the box, conflicted. He is keeping his promise to Prudence.

“I have to find a husband in a matter of weeks, Your Grace ,” she retorted. “I assure you—if I had had a choice in the matter, I would have refused.”

He glanced up at her. “I am disappointed to hear that.” His gaze drifted slowly down from her eyes to the points of her shoes. “As I am disappointed that you did not wear red.”

“Was that not just a general suggestion?” she said defiantly, shedding her cloak.

He shrugged, leaving silence between them as he got up and went to the nearby drinks table. Taking up two glasses, he poured from a decanter of ruby red liquid.

“Besides,” she remarked, uneasy with the silence, “I had no reason to wear red tonight.”

He frowned, bringing the glasses over to her. “And why is that?”

“Because there are no gentlemen here that I wish to catch the eye of,” she replied with a sarcastic smile, accepting the glass he offered. “And because I have no red dresses. The color categorically does not suit me, and now I fear for the condition of your eyes. Red hair and a red dress? Come now, it could never complement.”

He made good view of her. “I am not convinced, but I do think you would look equally resplendent in emerald green.” He sipped to hide a smile. “But then you would be too powerful in your beauty, and all the gentlemen would be chased away for a different reason, intimidated by your splendor.”

“Tell me, Your Grace, did your nonsense have to be learned or were you born with a talent for it?” she quipped, taking a small sip of her own drink.

It was milder than the port she had been served at Thornhill Grange. Sweet and heady and, in truth, rather delicious, like spiced sugar turned liquid.

“Ah-ah-ah.” He wagged a finger at her. “No lashing compliments back in a man’s face—that was lesson one.”

She rolled her eyes. “You said nothing about lashing hyperbole back in a man’s face.”

“But it is no exaggeration,” he insisted. “In the park today, you were the most exquisite woman there. There was not a single eye that was not upon you. If you had agreed to ride on Zeus’ back, the ton would have seen you and thought a fearsome goddess had come to grace them with her presence.”

“Behave yourself,” she gasped, her cheeks so hot that she stepped away from the fireplace.

He smiled wolfishly. “I am. You are crafted from the same divine hand that formed Helen of Troy, Cleopatra, Polyxena. You would be any painter’s muse. A man need only look upon you, and he could create the greatest symphonies in all the world. You?—”

“Stop it! I beg of you!” She squeezed her eyes shut, willing him to cease.

“I cannot. This is an exercise in complimentary bombardment,” he replied, humor lacing his voice. “You must be wholly prepared for the clumsy poetry of suitors, and this ought to get you accustomed.”

She shook her head, resisting the urge to laugh. “It is unbearable.”

“Nonsense, Miss Maxwell—my adoration for you is unbearable,” he continued. “My heart will break if you do not dance the next set with me. I shall beat upon my chest, crying my devotion in the streets! Say that you will dance with me, Miss Maxwell. I must have your company. I must have that honor, or I shall throw myself at your feet.”

She clamped her lips together, fighting to be serious. “Are there any ladies who actually like hearing such things? I would rather hear a man ask me my age, parentage, and residence than have him say such insincere things.”

“Be kinder,” Duncan instructed. “That is the exercise.”

She took a breath. “But how am I to be kinder when a man is threatening to embarrass me?”

“That is up to you.”

Taking another sip of her port to relax herself, she raced through the lessons she had learned at Thornhill Grange. When that offered little aid, she filtered through the encounters of the past seven years, finding instances where she wished she had behaved more generously.

“Adoration and affection should never be unbearable,” she began hesitantly. “I am sorry to say that I cannot dance with you, as I do not think it would be of benefit to either of us. Yet, I hope you might find a lady with as much passion as you possess. And I hope that she will ease your heart and dance with you. Forgive me, I think I see my friend over there.”

It was not what Duncan had asked her to do, but it was the only response she could think of for such a barrage of desperation. After all, she could not afford to waste time in her situation. Rejecting gentlemen swiftly but kindly was just as important, in her mind, as finding an appropriate suitor.

The sound of slow clapping cracked her eye open.

“Admirably handled,” Duncan told her. “You allowed him his dignity, though he likely did not deserve to keep it, but you did not entertain a match that would go nowhere. Very good.”

She exhaled, realizing that she had been holding her breath. “I meant to thank you, actually.”

“Oh?”

She perched on the edge of the nearby settee. “I thought you were toying with me for your own amusement, but you have something of a talent for this.” She smiled awkwardly. “I encountered a gentleman today and, using your lessons, I gained confirmation that he might like to see me again. Not just that, but I kept him talking, and he asked me questions long after he could have departed.”

A funny look passed across Duncan’s face, his brow furrowing, a muscle flexing in his jaw, squinting as if he had just looked up at the noonday sun. It disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, though Valeria was certain she had seen it.

“Excellent,” he said briskly. “I am pleased to hear it. Who was the gentleman?”

“Roger Grove, the Viscount of Campbell,” Valeria replied uncertainly, confused as to why he had seemed so perplexed.

Duncan nodded slowly. “A mild-mannered fellow. Pleasant. Well-educated. Not too tall or too short. Has a rather lovely manor in the country, with an ample fortune.” He shrugged. “You could do worse.”

“Oh, I did not mean that I was considering him,” she blurted out, though she could not explain why. “I have no fondness for him beyond friendship, and even that is exaggerating.”

Tapping the side of his glass with his forefinger, Duncan circled the room. “But if you are in a rush to wed, he would be a fine choice.”

“Do you mean ‘fine’ in the good sense or the middling sense?”

He sat down opposite her, on a matching settee. “Does it matter?”

It was a heavy question, and one that she was not prepared for. When she had agreed with her father to sincerely pursue marriage, she had assumed that it would be simple: she would find a gentleman, discover him to be pleasant enough and wealthy enough, and be married in haste. Whether it was a marriage of convenience or companionship or love had not played a part in that initial decision.

“I… suppose I still have a hope, silly as it is, that I can find a match like that of my friends,” she admitted quietly, gazing down into the glass of tawny port. “It is the rest of my life, after all. But the longer I have been attempting this, the more I think… no, it does not matter. I should be content with ‘fine.’”

I am in no position to ask for anything more, she neglected to add, for that would mean telling him why. Her father was a private man; he would not want the Duke of Thornhill to know of his woes and worries. Valeria did not want the duke to know, either.

“It is not silly,” he told her. “It does matter, so let us continue our work. Let us find you the match you deserve.”

Valeria raised her head in surprise. She had not known him very long, but she had never heard him speak with such… sincerity and determination before, as though her success was his success too. And the look in his eyes was a reassuring thing, those dark blue pools burning with resolve, shining with the promise of her victory.

She swallowed thickly. “How? This is useful, I do not deny it, but it is not… fast enough.”

“Then, let me teach you how to figure out a gentleman’s character quickly,” he replied, getting to his feet. “Resume your position. You are at a ball, you have had a glass or two of punch that has been liberally doused with brandy, and you have seen a gentleman or three that you like the look of.”

Valeria got up, clutching her glass tightly. “Do I approach?”

“Not directly,” he replied, turning his back. “You wander near him. You make him aware of you. Saunter and sway, glance over your shoulder at him, brush his arm as you walk by. Find any excuse.”

Feeling foolish, but slightly less so than their first lesson, Valeria did as he instructed.

Imagining herself in the midst of a chaotic ball, guests crammed in, she wandered up to Duncan and let impulse take over. Pretending that it was too overcrowded, she stepped back into the spot just ahead of him.

“Please,” she said, gesturing for imaginary people to pass her by.

Feeling Duncan’s eyes on her, she dropped her gaze and, slowly and shyly, raised it again to him. The moment their eyes met, she looked away again, and stepped back out into the ‘crowd.’

As she walked past him, she feigned a slight stagger, bumping into his arm with a murmured, “Goodness, I am sorry. There are so many people here tonight.”

Flashing him another shy look, she let this one linger a moment longer. Indeed, she struggled to look away at all, for the fire in his eyes had become an inferno, the black of his pupils smoldering like two embers. His jaw tensed, a muscle flickering, his expression almost… hungry.

“Forgive me,” she said quietly, making a move to continue past him.

His hand shot out, curving around her fingers, holding her there at his side.

“Dance with me,” he rasped, his deep voice like a summer thunderstorm, beautiful and dangerous. “Miss Maxwell… Valeria , dance with me.”