Page 42 of Never Besmirch a Wallflower: Dukes and Wallflowers

No one takes another card when they’re holding twenty-one. No one. Unless the fondness they’d been nurturing for a specific duke during the past few weeks exploded into full-blown affection.

And it had.

“One card.” Her tongue tripped over the words.

The Duke of Lennox selected the top card, flipped it over, and set an eight of diamonds on the table. Then he lifted his expectant eyes to her face, his breath catching between his teeth.

She grimaced, placed her cards face down on the table, and pushed the gold chain toward the Duke of Lennox. “It appears you’ve won yourself a reprieve from Mr. Philbert.”

Whooping, the Duke of Beaufort leaped to his feet, knocking over his chair, and danced around the table, his antics earning a giggle from Miss Fernsby-Webb.

“Miss Rowe,”—the Duke of Mansfield appeared at her shoulder and sent the Duke of Beaufort a scathing glower—“I think it best we retire for the evening before we use up the last of your good humor.”

“Of course,” she replied, rising. “If you would follow me upstairs.”

The collective fell into line behind Helena, with the Duke of Beaufort directly behind her, and they marched—some stumbling—from the parlor and up the staircase.

A low snore crept from beneath the first door to their right.

“That must be Warwick.” The Duke of Beaufort swung his arm, nearly hitting Helena, who ducked at the last moment. “Who will share with him?”

Sighing, the Duke of Mansfield trudged around him and muttered, “I’ll make the sacrifice.”

He opened the door, wincing when a snore smacked him in the face, and entered the dark room, shutting the door behind him with a light click.

The Duke of Roxburghe winked at Miss Webb. “We’ll take the next chamber.”

“You,” Miss Fernsby-Webb said, her eyes narrowing as she slid between him and her sister, “may have the company of either the Duke of Beaufort or the Duke of Lennox this evening.”

“Why must I suffer?” the Duke of Beaufort asked as Miss Fernsby-Webb ushered him toward the next door.

“Because my sister is not yet married, and I won’t allow the scandal of pregnancy to occur prior to her wedding.” Miss Fernsby-Webb opened the door and, glancing back at the Duke of Roxburghe, pointedly said, “Good evening, Your Grace.”

A dark grin split the Duke of Roxburghe’s face.

“Good evening,” he replied, draping an arm over the Duke of Beaufort’s shoulders and escorting him into the room.

Helena turned to indicate the door leading to the final chamber, but the Duke of Lennox wasn’t in the corridor. Frowning, she spun in a slow circle, her gaze searching the shadows.

“Did the Duke of Lennox disappear into the other chamber?” she asked, taking a hesitant step toward the first door.

“I don’t know.” Miss Webb looked at her sister, who shook her head.

“Should we search for him?” Miss Fernsby-Webb indicated the staircase.

A moment later, the Duke of Lennox’s head appeared, his black hair bathed in the light of a flickering candle. His gaze slid over the trio, stopping on Helena.

“Miss Rowe,” he said, his grave tone causing her stomach to clench, “may I speak with you a moment?”

She nodded, abandoning Miss Webb and her sister in the hallway and following the Duke of Lennox downstairs to the empty parlor.

“Has something happened?” she asked, winding her fingers together in front of her waist.

“Yes,” he replied, slamming the candlestick down on a table. “I know that you lied to me.”

CHAPTER NINE

EVELINE/HELENA