Page 17 of A Deviant Spinster for the Duke (The Gentlemen’s Club #3)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
T he gentlemen flocked to Valeria, the sheen of her resplendent velvet gown drawing them like moths to a lantern. In the refreshment room, they fell over themselves to fetch her something, offering to retrieve delicacies or a sweet treat, or to pour her a fresh drink though hers was already full.
She was polite, she was just witty enough, she fluttered her eyelashes and made sure to stand at an angle where she could be best admired. She offered compliments, laughed when she was supposed to, made enquiries and said nothing of steam engines, agreeing to dances until her card was altogether overcrowded.
Is it all supposed to feel so… hollow? She had never felt more like a caricature of herself in her life, yet the gentlemen seemed to relish it.
“If you will excuse me,” she said to a nervous fellow who clearly needed to be put out of his misery. “I ought to take my cousin back into the ballroom.”
Valeria steered Beatrice toward the doors, the noise and excitement of the ballroom like a breath of fresh air after spending so long surrounded, barely able to take so much as a sip of her drink.
“I hope you did not actually do that for my benefit,” Beatrice said in a quiet voice. “I was rather enjoying watching you fend off those fellows. Quite the conversational warrioress.”
Valeria chuckled. “I confess, it was for my sanity. I am… unaccustomed to attention.”
“And that shall always shock and bewilder me,” Beatrice replied. “If you were a grumpy old toad, I might understand it. But you are not only beautiful; you have character ! Intellect! Wit! What is it about such things that scares society gentlemen, I wonder? Do you think it is some manner of jealousy or inferiority? The worry that they might not be as amusing or intelligent?”
Valeria paused, expelling a laughing sigh. “Please, I beg of you, not so many questions. I have had my fill for the time being. I am certainly in no condition to discuss the mysteries of the male mind.”
“Sorry.” Beatrice grinned, weaving her arm through her cousin’s. “At least you know you shall not be in want of anything to eat or drink tonight. If you but snap your fingers, you shall have a horde of panting gentlemen at your heels in an instant, wagging their tails.”
Valeria peered at her cousin. “And what of you? Have any gentlemen taken your interest this evening?”
“Heavens, no. I am not even looking,” Beatrice replied, waving a dismissive hand. “Tonight is about you. The gown insists upon it. Me, in my feeble muslin, can only be in your shadow, and I am perfectly happy to enjoy the shade.”
A warmth spread through Valeria’s chest as she gazed at her cousin, so full of vitality and humor and intelligence and wisdom beyond her years, plus a hearty dose of irreverence that no one had yet stamped out.
I hope that no one ever does… I hope, dearest Bea, that you are never in my position. The thought of Beatrice having to marry due to circumstance, and not because she had found someone who matched her perfectly, would have broken Valeria’s heart.
“I hope I am not interrupting, Miss Maxwell,” a kindly voice promptly interrupted.
Valeria turned to find Roger Grove standing at a polite distance, accompanied by a gentleman that, for the life of her, she could not place. Yet, there was a recognition of sorts, like she should know him.
The unknown companion was tall and well-attired, in a tailcoat of claret velvet that was just a hue or two lighter than Valeria’s gown. A sign, perhaps? She was not sure. But he had a pleasant face, his top lip hidden by a sleek mustache, his reasonably long, chestnut hair held back by a ribbon. Handsome by anyone’s standards, though there was an aloof quality to the blue of his eyes and the upward tilt of a narrow chin.
“Not at all, Lord Campbell,” Valeria replied, remembering her manners and her lessons. “Indeed, my cousin and I were just lamenting the lack of distraction. I have a rather glaring space upon my dance card, you see, and nothing at all to fill the time.”
Beatrice gave her a playful jab in the ribs with her elbow. “Evidently, I make for very dull company,” she teased. “Although, I am surprised I am able to have a single moment alone with her, for if a set could be shared between gentlemen, I am certain she would be on that dance floor in an endless carousel. Dizzied.”
“You are resplendent tonight, Miss Maxwell,” Roger said with a nervous sort of smile. “It is a surprise to me, also, to hear that you have an empty spot upon your dance card. I had assumed I was too late.”
The man at his side cleared his throat.
“Ah, of course. My apologies.” Roger clapped a hand on his companion’s shoulder. “This is William Wilmslow, Baron of Tarporley. A good friend of mine, from Eton.”
Valeria curtseyed to the baron, placing him at last. What he lacked in station, he more than made up for with his vast fortune. It was not clear where the former baron, William’s father, had amassed such an enormous amount of wealth, but there were rumors of a gold mine and the tobacco trade. Either way, when William’s father had died, that immense fortune had passed to William in its entirety.
“Goodness, I certainly would not have accused you of being Harrow men,” she teased, gauging William’s response.
He mustered a half smile, his face not one that seemed prone to smiling. Unlike some other gentlemen that Valeria could have mentioned.
But he is not coming, so do not think of him, she chided herself.
Roger chuckled, humoring her. “I should hope not.” He paused. “My friend here wished to be introduced, and once I told him I was acquainted with you, he thought it wise to approach. However, I am afraid that I must ask if you would do me the honor of dancing the next set with me. If there is just one spot left, I must be selfish.”
William scowled at him, his top lip scrunching in a grimace. Evidently, that had not been the agreement between the two gentlemen, and though Valeria would have preferred to dance with Roger, whom she knew, she did have to hesitate. The baron could solve all of her household’s problems in the blink of an eye. Roger, however, had only a middling sort of fortune—not enough, perhaps, to salvage Skeffington House.
“ I would like to dance with you,” William said bluntly, his scowl barely fading as he turned his gaze on Valeria. “That spot on your dance card—I would like it.”
It appears you are someone who is unaccustomed to being refused, Valeria noted, biting her tongue.
“Gentlemen, you will make me blush terribly if you start squabbling,” she said instead, putting on a smile that made her cheeks ache. “I have neither pistols nor swords at hand, but perhaps you might duel between yourselves with your words and then inform me of who the victor is, so that we might dance.”
Her father should have been there, really, to act as chaperone and to remedy situations like this, but he still had not emerged from the smoking room. In truth, she doubted he would until he had spoken to every single gentlemen of business in attendance.
Roger bowed his head. “Very well, Miss Maxwell. We shall spare your blushes.”
“We shall not,” William muttered in reply. “I will be dancing with her, Grove. It was my idea to come over.”
“But I did ask her first,” Roger pointed out, his tone neutral.
A mild-mannered fellow… Just as Duncan had said. Not the sort of gentleman who could make a heart race or inspire much excitement, but… friendly and amenable. Then, there was William, who increasingly possessed the attitude of a spoiled boy.
“And I already informed you of my intention,” William sniped, putting out his hand. “The next set will be starting soon, Miss Maxwell. You will come with me.”
She stared at his proffered hand, willing herself to be polite, while every impulse demanded that she teach him a valuable lesson: that he would not always get what he wanted.
“There is such a thing as hierarchy, Lord Tarporley,” Beatrice said abruptly, having no such reservations around speaking her mind. “Lord Campbell outranks you in station, in how he asked first, and in general character. You ought to learn a thing or two from him, then you might not find yourself so disappointed.”
Valeria stared, wide-eyed, at her cousin, her gaze immediately darting back to William, who had turned a vivid shade of red.
“You must forgive my cousin’s youthful exuberance,” Valeria hurried to say. “She was just complaining of the heat in this ballroom, and you know how intense heat can addle one’s judgment. I hear it is rather like being inebriated, though I would not know anything about that.”
Beatrice cast her a sideways glance, wounding Valeria’s heart with the fleeting look of betrayal on her face.
The younger woman shrugged, sniffing in indifference. “Yes, it must be the heat. I apologize if you feel offended, Lord Tarporley. I simply hold a lot of faith in the rules of competition—you cannot come last in a race and expect the prize.”
Roger hid a smile behind his hand, while William’s face continued to flush with that rash of red. His cold blue eyes narrowed and flitted between the two women, as if trying to decide whether or not Beatrice was still insulting him. Not the sharpest blade in the butcher’s block, or so it seemed.
Raising his chin defiantly, William retracted his offered hand. “Do you have another spot available upon your dance card, Miss Maxwell?”
“I believe I have one more,” Valeria replied, immediately wishing she had lied. “After my dance with Sir Timothy Partridge.”
William scoffed. “A gentleman of no title is before me ?”
“Sir Timothy is a highly decorated captain,” Valeria replied coolly. “King George himself employs him as part of his private guard.”
A ripple of embarrassment passed across the baron’s face. “Yes, quite. Of course, I knew that.” He cleared his throat. “Well then, I shall look forward to our dance, Miss Maxwell.”
She was desperate to hurl a snide remark at him for speaking ill of someone like Sir Timothy, compelled to ask William if he had ever seen battle, or if he only engaged in petty squabbles and throwing tantrums when he did not get his own way. But she managed to hold her tongue and put on a saccharine smile.
“Indeed, Lord Tarporley.” She glanced at Roger. “So, shall we?”
Roger extended his arm. “It would be my honor, Miss Maxwell.”
As they were about to move toward the dance floor, and William disappeared into the crowd, Valeria hesitated, turning back to Beatrice. “Papa is in the smoking room. Are there friends you can stand with until I am done?” She was so used to having an actual chaperone that she had no notion of what to do without one. “Perhaps, I should not dance.”
“Nonsense.” Beatrice beamed from ear to ear. “I see my good friends just over there—I shall bother them until you are free to be pestered again. Do not worry a jot about me, cousin. I am nothing if not resourceful.”
Expelling a small breath of relief, Valeria allowed Roger to guide her to the dance floor.
The gown looked better than Duncan could have imagined. If the master of ceremonies had announced her as a foreign queen, come to seek a noble English consort, he would have believed it.
So, it is to be the viscount, is it?
He observed the expression on Valeria’s face as she walked to the dance floor at the viscount’s side, her hand resting delicately on the crook of the man’s arm. Rather too intimate a gesture for Duncan’s liking, but then who was he to talk about intimate gestures?
You will be bored within a month.
He frowned. She already looked less than thrilled, her face placid, the shine of her pretty eyes dulled as if she were in some manner of trance. As if the viscount, or that irksome baron, or the ball itself had poured cold water upon the fire of her very being. The spark of her that so compelled Duncan had gone out.
She has become one of them… He turned his attention to other ladies, noting that same blank look; the same false smiles and stilted laughs, the same thespians performing from the same script, in the play of courtship and achieving marriage.
But what business was it of his? He had promised he would help, and it appeared that he had. She had interest aplenty, she had her pick of the gentlemen present, so why did he not feel a lick of triumph? Why was he suddenly feeling so… frustrated by the situation?
Because she has dimmed herself too much, and that is not what I taught her.
Sipping his drink, he continued to watch as the couple took to the dance floor, his thoughts drifting to his drawing room and how he had basked in the fire of her, holding that inferno in his arms without getting burned. He thought of the kiss he had almost pressed to her lips, lamenting that he had not chanced a slap to be the first to graze that soft mouth, cursing himself for ever telling her that she needed to smother the fierce embers of her character to appease such small, unworthy, dull men.