Page 18 of A Deviant Spinster for the Duke (The Gentlemen’s Club #3)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T he lively country dance was not at all like the secret waltz that Valeria had daydreamed about ever since Duncan had held her and whirled her about his drawing room. It was entertaining, certainly, but she could not stop her mind from making sneaky, distracting comparisons.

“Do you like the seaside, Miss Maxwell?” Roger asked, as they stepped forward and back.

“Very much,” Valeria replied. “As I child, I visited Brighton often.”

Roger pulled a face. “Brighton is no true seaside. It is all stones and there are far too many people.” He turned in a circle. “My manor is by the sea. I mean to journey there for the end of the summer.”

“I have always adored Brighton,” she replied, somewhat defensively.

Some of her fondest memories were to be found on that pebbled beach, or wandering along the promenade, holding her mother’s hand as they weaved through other merrymakers.

“Ah, but that is because you have never seen a real beach,” he countered. “My manor has beautiful, sandy beaches. I thought I might have a ball, actually, though I do not know if anyone would make the journey.”

Is he asking me to make the journey? Regardless of her lessons with Duncan, she had still not mastered the art of reading every nuance in a gentleman’s conversation.

“If you make a point of describing the beautiful beaches, I doubt you will struggle to have a house full of guests,” she answered carefully. “You could even have the ball on the beach itself. Although, that might make the ladies of society grumble. No one wants sand ruining their gowns.”

Roger laughed. “That velvet would certainly struggle.”

“I cannot argue with that,” she replied, smiling.

He was a pleasant man. She couldn’t argue with that, either. Their conversation had been… engaging enough: stilted, at times, and rather generic, but she was not having a miserable time, dancing with him. The problem was that she did not feel like she could say whatever she liked, and he would respond in kind; she did not feel any rush of blood or flutter of the heart or flip of the stomach when she met his eyes. He was the gentlemanly equivalent of a plain scone: nice, sweet, but nothing memorable.

And she hated that she thought that way about him. After all, she was no excellent catch herself: on the brink of destitution, absent any real dowry, and at the ripe age of five-and-twenty.

“What do you think about the invention of these steam engines?” she blurted out suddenly.

Roger raised an eyebrow as he put up his hand to meet hers, the two of them turning in circles around each other. “I think it sounds rather ridiculous and rather dangerous. It has merit for mining, I do not doubt that, but this notion that people could travel on such things is… outlandish.” He paused, smiling. “You look beautiful tonight, Miss Maxwell.”

It was a painful blow, and she strove to keep a cheery demeanor upon her face. Even Roger did not want to hear her opinion about innovation and invention and what the world might look like one hundred years from now. He just wanted to tell her she looked nice.

“What if it could be done?” she persisted. “What if there were ‘wagonways’ for steam engines, all over the country? Would you ride on one?”

He pulled a face. “Certainly not. What would be the use of it?” He shook his head as he moved in a horseshoe around her. “I have never hosted a ball before. You are a lady who has attended many—what do you feel is important to entertain guests? I rather like the idea of having it on the beach, but… the organization would be troublesome.”

As Valeria echoed the movement, she sighed softly to herself; he had steered the conversation away from the things that interested her, putting her back in her ‘womanly’ box of ladylike topics.

“An excellent orchestra,” she said flatly. “Plenty of refreshments. You should be unique, though. If you host it on the beach, the entirety of society will empty out of London to attend . It will be the quietest the capital has ever been, I imagine.”

Roger nodded eagerly. “Then… I shall do it! Would you mind terribly if I were to continue to ask your opinion about it, as I make arrangements?”

“Not at all,” she answered, hoping her disappointment was not showing too much.

A short while later, the music faded to a close, and Valeria duly curtseyed to her partner. He bowed low, a pleased smile upon his face, oblivious to her dismay. And when he offered his arm to lead her away from the dance floor, she did not refuse. She was in no position to do so.

I can speak with my friends and my father about things that interest me, she told herself, fighting to keep a surge of panic from rising too high.

Roger led her to a table on the periphery, and as they sat, presumably to continue the conversation about his ball, a shadow stretched across her. For a foolish moment, her hopes soared.

“You dance very well, Miss Maxwell.”

Her hopes sank again. It was only the baron.

“Thank you, Lord Tarporley,” she said, unable to dip into the reservoir of her charms.

Suddenly, she was so very tired of it all.

“I hope you have not wearied yourself,” the baron continued. “You shall have to have that grace and liveliness when we dance.”

Valeria forced a smile. “I have vigor aplenty, Lord Tarporley. Do not fret; I shall not embarrass you upon the dance floor.”

He gave a nod of satisfaction that made her want to scream, and as he took a seat and began to ask how many years she had spent with a dance tutor, her gaze wandered the ballroom. Her replies automatic, unconscious.

Where is Beatrice? I should find her soon. I should ? —

Her heart jumped into her throat as her gaze fell upon an imposing figure, standing in the corner of the ballroom, a drink in hand, watching her like a hawk. There was a strange smile upon Duncan’s lips, his expression hard to decipher—at once pleased by what he saw, but, at the same time, brooding in a way she could not figure out.

Indeed, the smile did not reach his unusual blue eyes, his brow slightly creased, as though the two halves of his face were in conflict about how to feel.

“Miss Maxwell?” William said gruffly.

She blinked, returning her attention to him. “Pardon? Apologies, I was… distracted, searching for my cousin.”

He is here. He came, after all. He… has been watching me.

Her cheeks tingled with warmth, her own feelings hard to decipher.

“I asked if you like poetry,” William muttered, clearly annoyed.

Roger chuckled. “Find me a lady who does not like poetry, and I shall eat my hat. All ladies relish poetry, though I daresay I do not understand why.”

“Because poetry is music put into words,” Valeria shot back, hurrying to temper the tone of her voice. “That being said, not all ladies enjoy it. Not all ladies are the same. If you were to gather ten of us together, and ask us… meaningful questions, you might be surprised.”

The two gentlemen exchanged a look, smirking at the notion, as if they somehow knew better.

“Come now, you cannot argue that there are countless similarities,” the baron remarked, tugging at a frayed nerve in Valeria’s wearied soul. “All I hear ladies speak of is poetry, embroidery, dancing, playing the pianoforte and, on occasion, how dearly they adore the theater or the opera.”

Valeria’s eyes narrowed at him, against her better judgment. “That is why I said you ought to ask meaningful questions. If you ask a lady if she enjoys poetry, of course she is going to say that she does; it is an expectation.

If you were to ask a lady what her fondest memory is, you allow her to reply without hindrance or limitation. Ask her what her favorite stanza of a poem is, and you might find it enlightening. Do not ask her if she likes to read—ask her what she is reading at present, and what has held her interest, or not, as the case may be.”

William blinked in surprise, but his face did not redden as if he had been insulted, nor did he hurl back a sharp retort. Rather, he frowned, as if considering Valeria’s words, contemplating something he had never thought about before.

“Ladies would… appreciate that?” he asked with remarkable sincerity.

Valeria softened. “They undoubtedly would. It permits a better acquaintance much faster, for you learn things about her, and if she asks similar questions, then she learns more about you too.” She shrugged. “It avoids the banal inquisition that, I daresay, almost all ladies and gentlemen who are in want of a spouse find very tedious indeed.”

“Goodness,” Roger murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “Would that truly work?”

Valeria smiled. “Try it and see how you fare. Report back to me, and if I find myself at the end of the Season without a match, perhaps I shall turn my efforts toward matchmaking instead.”

“What is your favorite stanza of poetry, Miss Maxwell?” William jumped right in.

Her eyebrows quirked up, her heart leaping for a moment, savoring this gift to say whatever she pleased. “I rather like William Blake: ‘What is now proved was once only imagined…’ or ‘The man who never alters his opinion is like standing water, and breeds reptiles of the mind.’ Though I also like, ‘Love seeketh not itself to please, nor for itself hath any care, but for another gives its ease, and builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair.’”

Roger gasped, glancing around himself in something like a panic, no doubt appalled that she had used that blasphemous word so casually. A word that should, in his opinion, probably never leave a lady’s lips. But William seemed enchanted, his expression softening, his head nodding as if contemplating her choice of favorites.

“I must read this William Blake,” the baron said.

“The most sublime act is to set another before you,” a voice rumbled behind Valeria. “How can a bird that is born for joy, sit in a cage and sing?”

She turned sharply, her breath halting as she peered up at the figure approaching. Her gaze darted back to the corner of the ballroom but, of course, Duncan was not there anymore. He was behind her, slowing to a standstill, William Blake purring from his lips like the sweetest music.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Duncan said, barely nodding his head to William and Roger. “I believe I have the next dance with Miss Maxwell, and I have a keen desire to continue this celebration of a great poet as we leap and turn in a lively reel. Most invigorating. After all, ‘he who desires, but acts not, breeds pestilence.’”

Valeria stared at him in disbelief, not least because her dance card was full, and his name was nowhere upon it. But also because he quoted Blake so well, as if he knew the poems intimately, not stumbling over a single word.

Duncan held out his hand. “Miss Maxwell.”

“Actually, my good man, we were just in the middle of—” the baron tried to protest, but Duncan cut him off with a cold look and a colder smile.

“Come with me, Miss Maxwell,” Duncan said softly. “There is much we must discuss.”

Valeria felt herself reaching out before she could prevent it, even if she had wanted to. Her hand came to rest on his, and she rose to her feet, her gaze unwavering from his. That indecipherable darkness lingered in his eyes, though his smile was steadily edging closer and closer to meeting those enchanting pools of blue.

“If you will excuse me, gentlemen,” she said, remembering to be courteous, before Duncan guided her away from the table, heading for the excitement of the dance floor.

She peered up at him as they reached the periphery, waiting with other couples for the set to end so a new one could begin. He looked astonishingly handsome, his dark brown hair swept back in gentle waves, his complexion perfectly complemented by a tailcoat of deep red velvet: a perfect match for the gown she wore, and certainly not a coincidence.

“Your name is not on my dance card,” she pointed out, struggling to hide her relief that he was there. “You realize there is an etiquette to these things, do you not?”

He glanced down at her, flashing one of his truest smiles. “You know me well enough by now to understand that I do not care much for etiquette.” He covered her hand with his, as it rested on the crook of his arm. “You look exceptional tonight, Miss Maxwell, but I would have your personality be just as dazzling. You have dimmed yourself too much.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That full dance card would suggest otherwise.”

“I am not interested in names on a piece of paper, Miss Maxwell. I am interested in your demeanor, and how you are faring with the night’s endeavors,” he replied, as the music for the current dance came to a conclusion. “I am not quite content with what I have seen.”

As her mouth opened to protest, he ushered her onto the dance floor, where the presence of others made her hold her tongue for a moment. At least until the orchestra struck up again, to cover the sound of her whispered reprimand. She had done everything he had taught her to do, and now he was displeased? She would not allow it.

The music began afresh, and the pair surged forward to meet each other, palm touching palm.

But before Valeria could get a word in, he interjected.

“You are evidently doing very well,” he said, confusing her. “Indeed, you have been a remarkable student. The names on your card are evidence of that, as is the chatter that I have heard on my wanderings through the ballroom and beyond. You are all anyone can talk about: the undisputable belle of this ball.”

She turned in a circle with him, eyes locked with his. “Why do I sense a ‘but’ in your tone?”

“Because, my dear, dark angel, you have almost lost what made you unique,” he replied with a smile. “You are more obedient than I ever suspected, and you run the risk of becoming dull—an echo of every husband-seeking lady in society.”

Any joy she might have felt at being called a ‘good student’ evaporated with that remark, her pride wounded, her heart injured by the icy blade of truth he had skewered her with. To make matters worse, she could not argue, for she had felt the very same thing, that she had become a shadow of herself… but that did not mean she would not argue.

After all, she was still owed an apology.