Page 43 of Never Besmirch a Wallflower: Dukes and Wallflowers

He couldn’t know. She still had thirty minutes until midnight.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Helena squeaked out a confused, “Your Grace?”

The Duke of Lennox snatched her cards from the table and spun them around, showing their value. “You told me I won.”

“You did.” Heart thrumming, she took a wobbly step toward him and gestured at the cards. “I had twenty-nine.”

A low rumble emanated from his throat. “You had twenty-one.”

“But then I took one more card.” She forced a smile.

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Mr. Philbert doesn’t live here.”

“Neither do I.” He tapped the edge of the cards on the table, his intense gaze locked on her. “Miss Rowe, I thank you for your generosity this evening. However, I wish to make something quite clear. I have no desire to marry.”

“I didn’t ask for your hand,” she retorted, the sting of his unprovoked rejection spreading through her chest.

Every time she followed her heart’s advice, she landed in a worse situation. Perhaps it was best to remain a stoic wallflower.

A strange expression flickered across his face. “Why would you request my hand?”

She strode forward, wrapped her fingers around the back of a chair, and hissed, “Why would you believe my aim was to trap you into marriage?”

“You purposefully lost the game!” He threw the cards down.

“Did you wish to transport four men in various stages of drunkenness to the nearest inn?” She gestured toward the street. “I’m certain it would be quite the adventure.”

Grimacing, he dragged his hand down his face, sighed, and collapsed into the chair opposite Helena. “I apologize for my assumption.”

“Accepted, Your Grace.” She added a sympathetic smile. “It must be difficult to be a man of title; there aren’t many people whose intentions can be trusted.”

“There are a few.” His eyes flicked toward the ceiling. “And I thank you for your understanding. The man who marries you will be quite fortunate.”

But that man won’t be you.

The unspoken words hung between them.

“You’re too kind,” she replied, the words barely audible.

She leaned forward, collected the candlestick from the table, and turned away before the flickering flame highlighted the wayward tears creeping down her cheeks.

“If you would follow me,” she said, shuffling toward the exit, “I’ll show you to your chamber.”

“Miss Rowe…” Hesitation crawled across the room.

Hastily wiping her face, she turned back toward him. “You owe me no explanation, Your Grace. Now, I’m certain you’re exhausted.”

She twisted back toward the doorway, waiting until she heard the muffled scrape of chair legs on the rug before exiting the parlor.

“Wait,” he called from the doorway.

Hovering in the center of the foyer, Helena paused, her back stiffening. When she was certain she wouldn’t cry, she spun around, holding the candlestick far from her body.

“Yes, Your Grace?” she said, hoping she sounded indifferent.

A flash of concern slid through his eyes, darkening them to burned coffee. “Have I said something to offend you?”