Page 23 of A Deviant Spinster for the Duke (The Gentlemen’s Club #3)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I t was a peculiar feeling, to be returning to Thornhill Grange in broad daylight, using the main driveway, instead of being abandoned at the side of the road to sneak through gates and paths to reach the manor.

Valeria shifted restlessly on the squabs, peering out of the window as the Tudor-style residence came grandly into view, the whitewash gleaming in the stuffy afternoon sunlight, contrasting the shine of the dark wooden paneling. It was an exceptional property, with grounds that stretched as far as the eye could see, but she would not have exchanged it for Skeffington House.

She told her father as much, as the carriage trundled on toward the entrance.

“Nor would I,” her father agreed. “The expense of a manor like this must be extortionate. That is the trouble with older residences; they are always threatening to collapse or subside or crumble down altogether. And I always find them to be so gloomy within, all that mahogany sucking out the light.”

Beatrice chuckled. “I could say that about my home, but the gloom has nothing to do with the wainscoting. Rather, it is the woman who goes from room to room, sapping the joy out of every corner.”

“Beatrice,” Aaron scolded mildly, a half-smirk upon his face. “That is an unkind thing to say about my sister.”

“But is it untrue?” Beatrice prompted.

He grimaced, as if he did not want to agree. “When she was younger, she was as wild a girl as you are ever likely to see. I cannot speak for how she is now. Life has a way of… changing a person, and we must not judge the character of others, lest we invite that judgment on ourselves.”

“My mother was wild?” Beatrice’s eyes bulged with curiosity as she leaned forward. “Tell me more, uncle. Tell me everything. Then, the next time she attempts to scold me for one thing or another, I shall have the means to fight back!”

Aaron cleared his throat, offering his niece a kindly smile. “I will not give you ammunition, Beatrice. You shall just have to ask her yourself.”

“Please, Uncle!” she begged, but he laughed her request away, seeming almost like himself again.

Valeria had hoped that getting out of the city would be good for her father, and it appeared that at least one of her hopes was coming true. She just wished they could have been returning to Skeffington for the rest of the summer instead, preferably with no worries following them.

A short while later, the carriage pulled to a halt outside the main doors of Thornhill Grange, where footmen rushed to meet the guests. There were other carriages departing and arriving in an effortless carousel, suggesting that Duncan had invited most of society to his country house party.

“It’s only fair.” The memory of those words irked her afresh, though she had calmed down somewhat in the five days since she had last seen him. After all, his debt was now settled. She could move on without anxiously awaiting letters and gowns, wondering if he was going to be in attendance at a ball or not, searching for him discreetly in crowded rooms, trying to decide if he was playing games with her or not.

She had put all of that to bed, or so she kept telling herself.

“Valery!” Amelia shouted down from the foyer, raising a beckoning hand. “Valery, you are just in time!”

“In time for what?” Valeria asked, hurrying to meet her friend.

Lionel stood beside his wife in the surprisingly airy entrance hall, dipping his head politely in greeting. But as he raised his head again, his expression made Valeria pause. There was an odd look on Lionel’s face, a slight smirk on his lips, a slight glint of mischief in his eyes, which was not at all usual for the man. Indeed, it was rare enough that Lionel stared at anything other than his wife and child.

Valeria frowned at him, and he looked away sharply, giving confirmation enough that something strange was going on. What was that about?

“We are to have luncheon in the gardens,” Amelia chirped, oblivious to her husband’s odd behavior. “They were just calling us to sit down. I was so worried you would not arrive in time.”

“You should have allowed her to make a grand entrance,” another voice chimed in, heralding the moment that Valeria had been dreading. “Nothing draws the eye as keenly as a last-minute arrival.”

Swallowing thickly, steeling herself, Valeria turned and flashed a tight smile at Duncan, who had appeared from the adjoining hallway: a thoroughfare that did have the hunting-lodge gloom that old houses nurtured.

“Ah, but I would not want to be considered rude for being late,” she replied stiffly. “I saw no mention of a luncheon on the invitation. Had I known, I would have ushered my father and Beatrice out of the door with greater haste.”

Beatrice elbowed Valeria lightly in the ribs, chuckling. “You might have tried to.”

“It was an impromptu idea,” Duncan replied, gesturing to the long, low-ceilinged hallway ahead of them. “If you would take your places, the staff will begin serving shortly. And please, do adhere to your assigned chairs.”

He cast a pointed glance at Valeria, an infuriating smile warming his expression, before he stepped out onto the porch to greet the rest of the stragglers.

Eager for something to eat to distract herself from the memory of that wounding almost-kiss and the giddy dance that had felt so like flying, she was about to head off in the direction he had instructed, when she caught Lionel looking at her again. He seemed… pleased, a boyish glee in his eyes.

“Do I have something on my face, Lionel?” Valeria asked, tempering her tone.

He blinked, shaking his head effusively. “No… no, not at all. I… um… I was just thinking about luncheon. Come on, let us take our seats.”

Taking hold of Amelia’s hand, he led her away down the hallway, while Valeria stared after him, wondering what on earth had gotten into him.

Dabbing his mouth with a napkin, barely listening to what the gentleman at his side was chattering about, Duncan observed Valeria. He had done the honorable thing and seated her between Roger and William, figuring it was the least he could do, but she did not seem to be saying much.

Come now, you must see that I am doing this for you. He brought his glass of lemonade to his lips, the sourness making his mouth water. On a feverish summer afternoon, it was far better refreshment than any glass of wine.

He willed her to ignite her beautiful spark, waiting for her to dazzle the two gentlemen seated beside her. Not merely because he wanted to see that rare glimmer for himself, too, so that he could assure himself that he had not wounded her too badly.

I wanted to, Valeria… The lemonade stuck in his throat. I wanted to kiss you. I doubt I have ever wanted to do anything more. But… it is for the best that I did not, though it took everything I had not to.

He had gone over the night again and again in his mind and in his dreams, where the outcome had been rather different, torturing him with what could have been. For five days, he had driven himself to madness with the unknowns he would never get to discover: how soft her lips were; how fiercely she might have kissed him back; how glorious it might have felt to hold her in his arms and kiss her for hours; how happy it might have made him.

It was the very thing that had forced him away from London, and the townhouse, where there was not enough land to escape his thoughts of her. At Thornhill Grange, he had been able to walk or ride for as long as it took to exhaust himself, so he became too tired to think about her. Of course, then, the dreams slipped in to haunt him, but they were preferable to the endless tussle in his waking mind.

“Did Henry the Eighth ever visit this house?” a voice said to his left. “It looks old enough.”

Duncan glanced at the speaker, forgetting he had placed the rude, dark-haired young lady there. “I believe he did. He enjoyed hunting on these grounds.”

“And what do you enjoy for sport, Your Grace?” Beatrice asked, with a cold look and a wry smile. “What is your prey of preference? Foxes? Pheasants? Other helpless creatures?”

Her gaze wandered fleetingly down the long table that had been erected out on the lawns, the white lace tablecloths flapping in the tepid breeze. A deliberate glance toward Valeria, as if Beatrice knew something. Her dry smile as she looked back at Duncan spoke surprising volumes.

“I do not hunt often,” he said, refusing to take the bait. “I prefer to ride for the pleasure of riding, instead of chasing something.”

She canted her head, her eyebrow raised. “That is not what I have heard, Your Grace.”

“Oh? And what is it that you have heard?” he replied coolly.

“That you relish the chase, more than anything.” Beatrice skewered a morsel of fish. “What happens afterward is of no interest to you.”

He frowned down at her, as intrigued as he was annoyed by the young woman. He knew very little about her, other than her relation to Valeria, but perhaps she was exactly what he had been searching for. Someone who did not care at all about marriage, or him, and would take her freedom and run wild with it.

He swerved her barbed remark, seeing an opportunity. “How long have you been out in society, Miss Johnson?”

“Officially, this is my fourth year.”

“Unofficially?”

She shrugged. “This is my debut Season. My second.” She put a finger to her lips. “Do not tell anyone, or my cousin will be terribly upset.”

“I would not want that,” he replied, with more sincerity than he had intended to show.

His customary, blasé tone kept failing him. In truth, it was becoming rather unnerving, for he relied upon his nonchalance like an elderly old soldier relied on a cane. He would falter without it, losing his balance.

Beatrice’s eyes narrowed, searching his face. “You are not what you seem to be,” she murmured, almost to herself. A moment later, she shook it off. “My fish has gone cold.”

“Would you like it warmed?” he replied, unsettled by her quieter remark.

“No, thank you. That, I suppose, is the disadvantage of having luncheon outside—either the weather is so insufferably hot that no one has an appetite, or the food cools too quickly.” She shrugged. “I shall just savor the view instead.”

She promptly turned away from him to gaze at the woodland in the distance, across an ocean of gleaming green lawn, sipping her lemonade quite contentedly.

What an odd creature… Duncan’s attention returned to Valeria, his heart jumping as his eyes met hers. Her brow was furrowed in consternation, her pretty green eyes creased at the corners in a pained squint, her lips clamped in a pensive line that reignited his perennial desire to kiss her.

An instant later, he realized why she was staring at him like that. It was not because she wished to look at him—he had likely lost that privilege—but because of who he had been talking to.

Immediately, he felt compelled to explain himself, but she was too far away. Even if he were to tell her that he was just making polite conversation with a very impolite guest, he doubted she would believe him.

So, he picked up his glass and raised it discreetly to her.

Eyes flaring, she twisted in her chair, striking up a conversation with the Baron of Tarporley.

It is for the best, Duncan reminded himself, as he reached for the wine after all. He would need it, in abundance, if he was to get through the next three days with Valeria; having her so close, in his country manor where their ‘lessons’ had begun, while knowing he could never risk being that close to her again. For her sake.