Page 32 of A Deviant Spinster for the Duke (The Gentlemen’s Club #3)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

A fortnight had never flown by so quickly, blurring past faster than even Duncan’s wildest days, where entire months had blended into one another. He had spent it all at Thornhill Grange, walking and riding and fending off visits from Lionel, Edmund, and Vincent, who had grown increasingly concerned about their friend.

He would still be there at his country manor, hoping that the next twenty-mile stroll might be the one to rid himself of Valeria’s lingering presence in his mind, if he had not received a rather cross letter from the dressmaker, Mrs. Bird.

To the Duke of Thornhill,

The gown has been ready for two weeks, and I have received no coin or correspondence. Please collect it at your earliest convenience, or I shall be forced to put it on display for general purchase. You asked for it to be made as an express priority, and I have kept my end of the bargain. I do not appreciate insults to my work, so I can only assume there were unexpected circumstances.

Yours sincerely,

Mrs. Bird.

The quiet aggression had been enough motivation to set Duncan upon his horse, heading for London without delay. Although, what he was supposed to do with a gown that had very specific measurements, and a very specific recipient remained a mystery.

So it was that he found himself on the familiar street, walking quickly toward the shop with the jade exterior, praying that the proprietor would not ask too many questions that he was in no temper to answer.

He was almost there when he heard the jingle of the bells above the shop door, scuffing to a halt as a familiar figure stepped out.

Keen eyes fell upon him, as if she had known he would be there. Half a second later, she was in front of him, jabbing a finger at him, her voice low and threatening as she whispered, “No, you cannot be here. You must turn around at once.”

“A pleasure as always, Miss Johnson,” he replied curtly, swatting her jabbing finger away. “Do not presume to tell me where I may go.”

Beatrice glanced anxiously back over her shoulder. “Valery cannot see you.” Her voice softened, laced with a tremble of concern that may or may not have been genuine. “She is collecting her wedding gown. I am supposed to be fetching the bonnet from that shop up there. If she sees you, Your Grace, it…”

She clamped her lips shut as if she had already said too much.

“It will what, Miss Johnson?”

Beatrice grimaced, balling her hands into fists. “It will ruin her day, and this is supposed to be a happy day for her. So, please, if you still care for her at all, you will turn around and go away.”

“What if I wish to pay for her wedding gown?” Duncan asked, looking toward the shop door, willing Valeria to come out while simultaneously hoping she did not.

A strange, sad flare of exasperation brightened Beatrice’s eyes, panic prompting her to shift from foot to foot. “Do not be cruel, Your Grace. Please, just leave. She cannot see you. Her wedding is a week away, and… she does not want anything disrupting it. You , sir, are a disruption.” She swallowed loudly. “I suspect you know that you are.”

“I do not know what you mean,” he insisted, half-serious.

Simply seeing me would not be enough to undo an engagement, surely. Unless, that was why she left the house party in haste, without saying goodbye? He had assumed that she had departed like that because they were on bad terms, and she did not want to hear him tell her again why Roger was so wrong for her.

“I know all about my cousin’s nighttime excursions, several weeks ago. She is unaware of what I know, and I should like to keep it that way,” Beatrice replied in a hushed voice. “But you turned her brain to porridge for a while, and I will not allow you to do that to her again.”

Duncan squinted at her, fighting to keep his expression blank. “You are mistaken. I helped her.”

“You turned her brain to porridge,” Beatrice repeated fiercely. “And, believe me, no one is more disappointed than I am that things have turned out this way, but I will respect her decision because she is my cousin. She is the person I love most in this world. I will protect her from danger with everything I possess and, right now, Your Grace, you are a prowling tiger.”

He was aware of how rudely she was speaking to him, and that he likely should not tolerate it, but he lacked the desire to throw his authority around. It was the same issue he had had with Beatrice before. He could not reprimand someone who was just trying to defend her cousin.

With a sigh, Duncan dipped his head. “Very well. Good day to you, Miss Johnson.”

He set off down the street, hearing Beatrice’s yelp of, “not that way!” at the same moment that the shop bell jingled a second time. A figure in muted blue stepped out as Duncan passed by the front of the shop; they missed each other by a matter of an inch.

Valeria gasped, reeling back from the almost collision.

Duncan stopped dead, soaking up the sweet sight of her, hurriedly committing to memory all of the things he had spent two weeks forgetting: the dusting of freckles, her summer-warmed complexion, that extraordinary auburn hair that was, at present, half hidden beneath a bonnet adorned with roses; the striking green of her eyes, the plump pink of the lips he had never kissed.

“Lockie?” Amelia appeared on the shop’s front step, putting her arm across Valeria as if to protect her from him. “What are you doing in London? Lionel said you were in the country for the foreseeable.”

Do they all know how terrible I have been? How… foolish, to let this dark angel slip through my fingers?

He straightened his posture, schooling his face into a look of casual indifference. “I had something urgent to collect. I will be returning to the country once I have it.”

Amelia squeezed past Valeria, putting herself in the way. “Well, do not let us hinder you.”

Evidently, Lionel had been gossiping to his wife. It was obvious that Amelia thought Duncan was there to retrieve Valeria and, for a moment, he had half a mind to do just that.

But then he looked at her—that beautiful, perfect woman—and saw something he had hoped he would never see on that remarkable face: the soft sadness of heartbreak, not quite fresh, but not yet healed.

“I am afraid you are in the way,” Duncan said, keeping his voice flat.

Valeria frowned. “You are collecting something from here ?”

Her tone matched his in its chill, but her eyes betrayed her, widening with a wounded surprise. No doubt, she thought he was collecting a gown for some other woman, beginning a new game for his own amusement, not realizing that his games had ended with her. He would never play again.

“Indeed,” he replied.

Holding her head high, Valeria flashed a tight smile and stepped down onto the street, moving out of his way. “We have what we need. Do not let us stop you.”

“Thank you,” he replied stiffly, as Amelia and Isolde filed out, hurrying to Valeria’s side.

Duncan approached the door, but as his hand curved around the handle, ready to push inside, he could not help but look back at his dark angel.

Their eyes met, a thousand unspoken things flying back and forth between them; her gaze gleaming with something like regret while her mouth remained in a grim line; his gaze trying to tell her that he would love her if he was capable of it, if he was a better man, while his expression stayed implacable. Cold.

It was at that moment that Duncan noticed something else that adorned her bonnet, in amongst the roses: a sleek, black feather. The same raven feather that he had slid into the vase of lavender at Skeffington House, when he had first arrived to insist that he owed her a debt.

She seemed to realize at the same instant, her hand reaching up to touch it, to hide it. But he had already seen it, and his mask of indifference almost broke.

“Good day to you,” he said brusquely, pressing on into the shop, to collect a gown of exquisite beauty that would never be worn. A garment that would join his mother’s rare gowns in that lonely wardrobe: a museum of fashion, gathering dust.

Valeria could not breathe, her hand clawing at her chest as she marched up the street, desperate to put as much distance between herself and the shop as possible.

Why today? Why did you have to be there today?

She had been at Skeffington for a fortnight, making arrangements through letters and her friends and correspondence with Roger, who had returned to his seaside manor. She had intended to stay there until the last moment possible, before leaving for the wedding, but Isolde and Amelia had insisted that she had to be there to collect her wedding gown in person.

“We will be in London for two days at most,” Isolde had urged. “You cannot send anyone to fetch it, Valery. It must be you. That is part of the excitement of a wedding!”

Yet, all the way to London, Valeria had not been able to shake the feeling that it was a terrible idea. Now, she knew why.

I was just starting to get comfortable with the prospect of being Roger’s wife. I was so close to being at peace with it. That was not entirely true. She had spent the past two weeks talking herself into it over and over and over again, and would likely spend the next week doing the same; her mind in constant conflict with her foolish heart.

But he had just taken away the one advantage she had possessed; that she did not have to see him and, so, would not have all her good work unraveled before her very eyes. It was easier to convince herself that she could be content with Roger, without having to gaze at the man who insisted otherwise without saying a word.

I love him… The realization struck her like a falling tree that she had had the misfortune of standing beneath. No… oh, no, no, no… I love him.

Of course, she had been aware of the feelings growing within her heart, every time she had visited him, every time she had been close to him, every time she had dreamed of him; every time he had held her, danced with her, and very nearly kissed her, but she had refused to name the feelings. Seeing him again, that affection, that intense bond that refused to be severed, had named itself.

“Valery?” Isolde put an arm around her. “Are you well? You look pale.”

Amelia took hold of her hand. “Just walk, Valery. Let us keep walking until you feel better.”

I do not think there is anywhere far enough to make me feel better, not even Skeffington, Valeria wanted to say. Instead, she let her friends support her, while Beatrice trailed behind, holding the boxes that contained Valeria’s wedding attire. The wretched bait that had lured her back to London, forcing her into Duncan’s path at the worst possible moment, for her resolve was already made of sand and, right now, it was crumbling.