Page 6 of A Deviant Spinster for the Duke (The Gentlemen’s Club #3)

CHAPTER SIX

“ I f I did not know any better, I would think you were not listening to me.” A grating voice drew Duncan’s attention away from the grandfather clock on the periphery of the gaudy ballroom.

He had been watching the minute-hand creep further and further toward nine o’clock, irritation smoldering with each steady tick.

“What did you say?” he asked politely, glancing down at Phyllis Croston, the Duchess of Leven. “I confess, I was miles away.”

Her eye twitched. “I was just telling you about my dear daughter. You simply must dance with her tonight, for she is quite the most beautiful woman in attendance. You would look so charming together, and your sweet brother always made a point of dancing with her. Indeed, you know it was my hope—and, I trust, your own parents’—that they would be wed.”

“Is that so?” He forced a smile onto his lips. “I had no notion that my parents were arranging marriages when my brother was just a boy. Was it while he was at Eton? It must have been; he used to tell me that letters would go missing all the time while he was away at school.”

Phyllis laughed awkwardly, uncertain of the jest. “It was more of a… verbal agreement, discussed at dinner parties and such. My husband would speak of it with your father. Duke to duke.”

“Ah, come now, you are not a foolish woman—you ought to know that all important matters should be made ironclad in writing,” Duncan replied lightly. “Otherwise, anyone could go around saying that betrothals had been made and engagements had been agreed upon. Of course, I do not think you would do such a thing.”

He darkened his gaze, letting his smile fade slowly, entirely aware of the effect it had. He could see the moment that Phyllis’ confidence waned, her eyes blinking more rapidly, her hand fidgeting with the ostentatious necklace at her throat. If she had not been wearing so much rouge on her cheeks, he was certain she would have blanched.

“Yes, quite. I can see how that might happen.” Her throat bobbed. “Goodness, I think I see an old friend. Please, excuse me.”

Duncan dipped his head. “Of course, madam.”

She would be back, he was convinced of that, but at least he would have some time without her breathing down his neck. It was a familiar back and forth, by that point—the Crostons thinking that their unwed daughter was somehow entitled to a duke, because she was a duke’s daughter, and her sister had married a duke. Duncan liked to remind them, now and then, that he did not agree.

As far as he was concerned, Iphigenia Croston would do well to marry the next eligible gentleman who asked, whether he was a prince or a gardener.

Yet, I do not feel that way about Miss Maxwell’s situation. Curious. He glanced back at the clock as it began to chime, muttering a rude word under his breath. She was an hour late and, knowing her, it was deliberate.

I wish my friends were here. Oh goodness, I cannot do this. I will be stared at. I will be mocked. I cannot do this. I should retreat at once. Panicking, her palms so clammy that her silk gloves were sticking to her skin, Valeria sank back on the squabs in the hope that the footmen would not notice she was there.

The gown that Duncan had sent to her residence fitted as if it had been precisely made for her, yet she had never felt more uncomfortable. It was too daring, too bright, too embellished, too tight in places, and not at all what she would have chosen to wear. Nor could she give Duncan the benefit of the doubt that he had selected it for that exact reason, because it was not what she would have chosen, but rather because he had decided to toy with her.

It is an amusement for him, like his wretched flirtations. I wonder how many gowns he has bought for ladies over the years, to amuse himself. Must have cost him a fortune. She was under no illusions about his behavior toward her: a well-rehearsed script that usually ended with a woman falling for his charms, only to be cast aside for the next shiny thing. Maybe, that was why it did not fit her properly—the gown or his flirtations—for she was not interested in being another name to add to his collection.

“Mademoiselle?” A footman appeared at the carriage door. “Will you be joining us?”

Valeria groaned inwardly. “Yes, I will. Thank you.” She turned to the cook, who looked twice as uncomfortable in a borrowed gown. “I am eternally grateful, Mrs. Mitford.”

“No one in the village is going to believe this,” the cook murmured in reply, fanning herself furiously. “Are you certain that I’m not going to embarrass you?”

Valeria managed a real smile. “You could never embarrass me, Mrs. Mitford. Indeed, I think you shall make the most exemplary chaperone, and I insist you enjoy yourself. Eat all the delicious things, drink all the wonderful drinks, and perhaps you will imbibe enough to be able to forgive me for roping you into this.”

It had been a desperate necessity, for she could no longer validate enlisting the services of a chaperone, and with her mother gone and her father still away, he had not been able to accompany her. She could have asked her friends if they had not been in London, and she did not feel right summoning them all the way back from the capital, though she knew they would have come.

“I don’t need to forgive you, Miss Maxwell,” Mrs. Mitford replied shyly. “It mightn’t look like it, but I’m looking forward to this.”

Valeria took a breath. “Come on, then. Let us not delay any longer.”

Holding onto the cook’s arm, Valeria stepped down from the carriage and made her way up the marble steps to the open double doors of Leven Court: the grand country manor of the Croston family.

Immediately, the chatter of so many voices made her ears tingle as if there was a wasp stuck inside, a shiver running down the back of her neck. Her skin burned with the sting of countless eyes turning to stare at her, a lull in gossip letting her know that she was the center of attention. And she had not yet made it beyond the entrance hall.

This was a mistake… I look ridiculous and everyone knows it. She could have strangled Duncan for making such a fool of her. Maybe, she had gotten it wrong; maybe, this was vengeance for not falling for his usual tricks.

“Chin up, Miss Maxwell,” Mrs. Mitford whispered, flashing a wink at her temporary ward. “You look like a princess. Walk like one.”

Valeria pulled her shoulders back and raised her chin, concentrating on her posture and putting one foot gracefully in front of the other, as the two women cut straight across the entrance hall. They moved quickly into the adjoining hallway, following the thoroughfare to the ballroom at the end. And though whispers continued to swirl around Valeria, she did a decent job of ignoring them, taking confidence from the cook at her side.

She has more reason to be nervous than you do. You are, at least, used to it. Be courageous for her, and for the future of the house, if not for yourself.

It helped, reminding her of the sort of person she usually was. Not someone who was easily scared or insulted or diminished or intimidated, but a woman who did not suffer fools, and held herself with dignity. It was just a gown, it was just a ball, it was just the Crostons, whom she did not like; she could not allow anything to get to her, not with so much at stake.

She had barely taken a few steps into the ballroom, when her path became blocked by a gentleman of slender stature and a potent brandy scent. He must have had half a bottle of oil in his fair hair, his blue eyes glassy.

“Miss Maxwell, what a pleasure,” Martin Thorne crooned, turning her stomach. “This is fortunate indeed, for I was just looking for a suitable spinster to dance with.”

Valeria glared at him. “If you were the very last gentleman in England—and I use the word ‘gentleman’ very loosely—I would not dance with you.”

She might not have been very fond of the Crostons, but she outright despised Martin Thorne, elder brother of Amelia. A cruel, jealous, petulant, generally vile wastrel of a man, who had become something of a pariah in the three years since Amelia’s marriage to Lionel.

“You would reject me ?” he scoffed, swaying slightly. “You should be grateful that I have deigned to speak to you. What are you—thirty and unmarried?”

She sighed. “Five-and-twenty, actually. Now, if you will excuse me.”

She made to walk past him, but he stepped in front of her.

“I will tell you when you may leave.” He puffed his chest. “Indeed, you should be grateful I am even talking to you.”

Valeria shook her head, casting a sideways glance at the cook. “Why does every rejected gentleman feel the need to say some iteration of that to me? I am not grateful. Indeed, I wish you would leave me be, for I have nothing to say to you.”

“How is my sister?” he said, undeterred.

“She is none of your concern, and if you mention her name again, or I hear that you have enquired about her at all, I will not hesitate to inform her husband, and her husband’s friend, the Duke of Davenport. They will ensure you have understood with far more insistence than me, so consider this the gentler warning.”

Valeria pushed past him, dragging Mrs. Mitford with her and, this time, Martin did not try to cut her off again.

It was not long before Valeria found herself lost in a sea of people, the cook vanishing to explore the delights of the refreshment room. She stood on tiptoe, trying to see above the heads of the other guests, searching for the reason she was there in the first place… while also hoping she did not look like she was searching for him.

“Excuse me?” a man said, smiling as he paused in front of her.

“Hmm?”

“I could not help but introduce myself to a lady as beautiful as yourself,” the man replied, undeterred. “I am Peter Dalgleish, son of the Marquess of Edgecombe.”

She did not bother to glance at him. “A pleasure, I am sure.”

“If your dance card is not full already, might you consider dancing a set with me?” the man continued. “Apologies, I do not think you gave your name.”

“No, because I did not offer it,” she remarked, wondering if Duncan had departed already, to punish her for being late. “I am sorry, I do not suppose you have seen the?—”

She halted, realizing that the gentleman had already gone, not wasting a moment longer on someone who evidently was not interested in his attention.

And without insulting me, too. Hmm… maybe things are changing after all. Still, the man’s absence did not help with her other problem.

Casting one last gaze across the crowded ballroom, deciding she would retreat to the refreshment room if she could not find him, she saw him… and wondered how on earth she could have missed him. He stood by the windows, bathed in golden torchlight, standing out among the guests as if the heavens themselves had illuminated him.

He raised the glass of punch in his hand, flashing her a wink as he caught her eye and sipped. Clearly, he had placed himself there on purpose, knowing how the light would make him appear. It was almost impressive, his attention to detail.

She smoothed her hands down the elaborate beading of her skirts, suddenly feeling foolish again. Had she played right into his trick by wearing the gown? How badly would he relish seeing her do as she was told? She dreaded the thought, already preparing her complaints for when she was closer to him. But, right now, they were a safe ballroom’s width apart.

Licking his lips, he tilted his head to one side, nodding in the direction of the exit.

She frowned, shaking her head in confusion. What was that supposed to mean? It could have meant anywhere.

Rolling his eyes with a smile, he performed a reasonably discreet charade, pushing imaginary spectacles onto the bridge of his nose, pretending to open out a book, nodding along as if the invisible story was very interesting indeed. That done, he tilted his head again, leaving her in no doubt of what he was saying: Meet me in the library.

She swallowed tightly as he downed the contents of his glass and snuck out through the garden doors, leaving her to find her own way to the Croston library.

Alone.

I should fetch Mrs. Mitford, she told herself, already knowing that she would not. This was not a conversation she needed anyone to overhear, even if it meant briefly risking her reputation. Indeed, it would be nothing short of a catastrophe if she was caught with society’s most infamous rake in the library of the biggest gossipmonger the ton had ever seen.