Page 4 of A Deviant Spinster for the Duke (The Gentlemen’s Club #3)

CHAPTER FOUR

D uncan Lock had never encountered a woman so impervious to his charms, nor so determined to rebuff his flirtatious efforts. There were ladies who acted coyly to begin with, of course, but they could rarely resist his attention for long. Ordinarily, all it required was a change of approach, adapting his pursuit to the character of the lady he had set his sights upon.

Valeria Maxwell, however, was a lump of granite, impossible to erode with his usual tide of sultry compliments and flirtatious behavior.

“You want me to help you find a husband?” he repeated flatly. “I am offering you whatever you want, and that is what you are requesting?”

She had been right to tell him that he would probably be disappointed. It was akin to arranging a hunt with old schoolfriends, certain that it would be a beautiful day for it, only for bad weather to roll in and douse everyone with an icy downpour, scaring off the birds and deer. Leaving the party soggy and miserable, wondering why they bothered riding out at all.

“Yes,” she said simply.

He withdrew a half step, eyebrow raised. “You want me to be your matchmaker?”

“I imagine that if anyone knows the decent gentlemen of society and who to avoid, it is you,” she said with a slight shrug of dainty shoulders.

“With respect, Valeria?—”

“Miss Maxwell will suffice,” she interrupted, her plump lips flattening into a tight line.

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Miss Maxwell, I can find you a matchmaker, but I cannot be your matchmaker. I would not know where to begin with you.”

“Am I so without prospects?” she challenged, her tone almost daring him to be blunt.

Taking another half step back, he surveyed her as if he had not already observed her at great length, committing every detail of her beauty, her figure, and her demeanor to memory.

She was slender in the way that those who loved the countryside were, and taller than most, with the most exquisite auburn hair that shone in the sunlight. Strands shifted color depending on how she turned her head: strawberry, copper, russet, and burnished gold. Her eyes were the shade of late summer leaves, not yet turned toward autumn, her skin a healthier hue than the ghostly white of most society women, proudly dusted with a pretty constellation of freckles.

Fiery, defiant, curious, rebellious. A splendid blend.

“How old are you?” he asked instead of replying.

She scowled at him. “Five-and-twenty.”

“And, at five-and-twenty, why do you think I can succeed where you have not?” he said, not at all surprised to hear that she had some wisdom, some experience. She did not carry herself like a debutante, which he rather liked.

She sauntered away, skimming her fingertips along the back of the nearest settee. “Because you know men, and I do not. Because you have influence, and I have so little.” She paused, smiling a little. “And because you owe me.”

He laughed in the back of his throat, unable to help it. “I do.”

“Are you going to break your word?”

“No, but I should like to understand. If I do not, I can be of no assistance to you.” He leaned against the window frame, arms crossed, watching the way she moved through the room.

There was hesitation in the sway of her hips and the position of her hands, as if she did not know what to do with them. He was making her nervous.

Not so impervious, perhaps.

“What is there to understand? Are you not an intelligent man?” She canted her head, staring back at him.

He chuckled. “I am reasonably intelligent.”

“Well then—I wish to be married, I need a husband to do that, and you are well acquainted with most of the gentlemen of the ton. There is no trickery here, Your Grace. It really is that simple.” She paused, chewing her lower lip. “Of course, we shall have to keep this between us. I do not want to be entangled in a scandal with you, Your Grace.”

A pity…

“Do you have any requirements?” he asked, more intrigued by the prospect than he cared to admit.

She halted behind an armchair, eyeing him warily. “What do you mean?”

“Preferences?” he replied with a smirk. “Do you want a husband that is likely to die soon? Do you favor an excellent head of hair, or would you not be averse to some balding? Do you like your gentlemen tall, short, dark hair, fair hair, thin as a broom, plump as a festive goose? Should they be witty or very dull? Is this to be a marriage of convenience, or one of companionship—passion, even?”

He relished the sight of her cheeks flushing pink, and the agitated scrape of her fingernails against the leather of the armchair. She could not look at him, her nerves returning. Still, he had to give her silent praise for not fleeing the room, the moment she realized they would be entirely alone.

Somewhat wasted time, in his opinion, when there were more pleasant pastimes to enjoy in such privacy, but he was a gentleman; he would respect her wishes and desires.

Indeed, he had not known that she would be alone when he arrived at the manor, though he preferred it. He had been dreading the idea of having to make up some excuse to her father in order to get her by herself, to see that his debt was fulfilled.

“Goodness… I had not thought about that,” she mused, mostly to herself.

He made a noise of disbelief, regaining her attention.

“What?” she said curtly.

“You must have been out in society for… at least seven years by now,” he replied, counting in his head. “How have you not considered such things?”

She sniffed, resuming her turn about the room. “I have had other distractions.”

“Perhaps, that is why you are on a bolting horse toward spinsterhood,” he remarked with a playful grin that, judging by her withering look, she did not appreciate. “Let me phrase it this way—if your perfect husband was about to walk through that door, what would he look like? And you cannot describe me, alas, for that would show a rather limited capacity for imagination.”

She made a point of turning her back on him to observe some books, running her touch down the spines. “I… suppose I would want him to be kind and amusing,” she said, after a moment. “I would prefer a companion; someone who is not ancient but not a reckless boy; someone who… listens and can at least pretend to be interested in what I have to say. A friend in husband form, ideally.”

It would have been easy for Duncan to mock her, to pierce the air with a jesting whistle and tell her that she was asking for the impossible, considering her age and her position in the social hierarchy. Her options would be limited, there could be no sugarcoating that, but he was somewhat surprised by her list of preferences.

“You do not care if they resemble a toad that has been left out in the sun all afternoon?” he prodded.

She shrugged. “If they are nice and have at least some of those attributes I mentioned, I would not care what they looked like.”

“Balderdash,” he said abruptly, unable to hold the word in. “Everyone cares about appearances. And I have my honor to uphold—I could not allow you to walk down the aisle with a toad.”

She drew out one of the books, brushed away some dust, and slotted it back into the shelf. “Do your task well, and I will not have to.”

“I cannot believe you are turning me into a matchmaker, forcing me to join the ranks of painted matrons with loud opinions and wagging tongues,” he pretended to grumble, sweeping a hand through his hair. “Could I not just kiss you and give you a sum of money, and call us even?”

She blinked, her mouth agape. He could not deny how much he enjoyed shocking her. In truth, he was teasing her more boldly than he would usually dare to, for she did not strike him as someone who was easily stunned.

“No, you most certainly cannot!” she barked a moment later, recovering. “Honestly, for someone who was so insistent on fulfilling an obligation, you are complaining a great deal. Do not forget that I tried, over and over, to let you off the hook you fashioned for yourself.”

He smiled slyly, eyes tracing the rush of pink as it swept over her cheeks and down to her throat, little blooms of color appearing all the way to the neckline of her day dress. His gaze dropped lower to the astonishing sight of dirt, covering the skirts in dusty patches.

Does she garden? She did not seem like the type, but perhaps that was why she was daubed in mud.

“You are quite right, Miss Maxwell. I have hoisted myself with my own petard and must bear the consequences with all the grace I can muster.” He grabbed his tailcoat from where he had draped it across the arm of the settee, throwing it over his shoulder. “I shall consider your requirements and produce a list for your perusal.”

“That is it?” she asked, frowning.

“Did you want me to protest some more? I can, if you like?” he threatened with a soft laugh. “Or I could keep making alternative suggestions that would inevitably turn your entire face as red as a beetroot?”

“No!” she gasped. “Goodness, no. Yes, please do leave and make that list for me, and do not come back here uninvited.”

He moved toward her, just to see what she would do. “But how am I to give you my findings if I cannot be alone with you again? I doubt you would want me to read out an array of potential suitors, naming all their faults and advantages, with your father in the room, would you?”

He could still see the way she had trembled when he had approached her earlier, silhouetted in the window. He could imagine how it would feel to caress the nape of her neck, unfurling her beautiful auburn hair from the trappings of slides and pins that held it up, watching as it came tumbling down before he ran his fingertips through it, winding silky locks around his hand.

“There is a thing called the post, Your Grace,” she replied, holding her ground. “If you are unaware of it, I would urge you to ask your staff. They can see to it that a letter reaches me.”

He wagged a finger, hiding his amusement. “It would be better if you could see the prospects as I relay them to you. Description only goes so far—trust me.”

Her throat bobbed, her gaze lowering. “What do you suggest?”

“I could suggest many things,” he replied in a sultry voice, “but, in relation to the task at hand, you should rendezvous with me at the Croston Ball. I can point out your choices and you can speak with them, so you do not waste any more valuable time.”

She did not look up at him, denying him the sight of her beautiful green eyes. “I will not be attending the Croston Ball.”

“Why not?”

“I have received no invitation,” she replied stiffly.

He furrowed his brow, for the Crostons were renowned for inviting anyone and everyone to their gatherings, more interested in holding the title for the largest ball of the Season, rather than the most distinguished.

“Another occasion, then,” he said. “I will choose an appropriate event and write to you in due course. Until then, if you think of any other preferences, do let me know. I should hate for you to be disappointed.”

She nodded. “Very good.”

Taking his dismissal, he strode toward the door, pausing on the threshold. “Miss Maxwell?”

“Hmm?”

“One last question,” he said, turning back for a moment.

She finally raised her head, wariness in her expression. “Yes?”

“Why now?”

She frowned, tilting her head in a manner that made him want to march back across the room and graze his lips to the soft skin of her elegant neck.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

He took a breath. “Why are you doing this now, after seven years of opportunity, when things would have been far easier for you? Why the urgency now?”

Her face fell, and he wished he had not asked. A ripple of something like pain moved across her uncommonly pretty face, a small line forming between her eyebrows, her lips clamping together to hold back the truth.

All he received was a slow shake of her head, and though he was not one to be dissuaded so easily, he did know when to back down and hold his tongue. There was a reason for the sudden urgency, and she was not going to tell him.

Not yet, anyway.

“I will clear my debt to you,” he said quietly. “Rest assured.”

And whatever the reason for this decision, I hope that my actions may resolve it. He did not like to see any woman upset, and he had a feeling that she would look exceptionally beautiful when she smiled. Perhaps, he would see that smile before his task was done.

With that, he took his leave of her, feeling the weight of the promise he had just made as he climbed into the saddle of his horse and took off. After all, if she hoped to be married before the Season’s end, he did not have a moment to lose.