Page 3 of The Duke Who Dared Me (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #31)

Verity whirled around and strode up to him, smacking him upside the head. It only earned her a bored chuckle.

In all her years of knowing Alistair, she couldn’t ruffle his feathers. Not entirely, at least. He always managed to keep control of his emotions. But tomorrow was another day ripe with opportunity. Verity was determined to find a way beneath his skin and make him squirm.

“If you go around London hitting all your suitors, that may be why you haven’t become a bride.”

“I haven’t become a bride because, like you, I would prefer to remain single.”

“You mean you’d rather be a spinster.”

“I’d rather wait for the right man to call my husband than be auctioned off like some prized heifer at the market.”

That, annoyingly, earned her a guffaw.

“Listen, I am not in love with the task at hand either, but a promise is a promise, and your brother is a friend. I never break a promise to a friend.”

“You break promises to me all the time.”

“You aren’t a friend, Verity.”

She swooped down to sit across from him again, allowing her skirts to billow out around her. She must look like those silly porcelain decorations Cook always insisted on using when finishing a beautiful pie.

“At least we can agree on that. What am I then?”

“The bane of my existence.”

She straightened, pleased with herself. “To think it only took twenty-three years for you to admit as much.”

“It’s hardly a secret.”

Verity rolled her eyes, then dove for the tray of tea sandwiches. She popped one into her mouth. “Look, it’s best to be honest here. I don’t want a husband, and you don’t want to deal with me. And since you know I won’t make it easy, we should strike a deal.”

Alistair gripped his forehead and groaned. “Darling…”

Verity neatly nipped at her finger, forgetting she no longer held her sandwich at the long curl of that word. She was certain it was meant to disarm her.

“Long night, Alistair?” She sat up straight, then leaned closer, observing how red his eyes were.

“Haven’t been to bed.”

“Poor dear.”

“I will arrange for you to meet a group of bachelors. You will find a match this year and marry at the end of the Season.”

“Or else?”

“Your brother can no longer support you, given the family’s debts.”

She smacked the table, then jumped to her feet. “That traitor. I still help manage this household.”

“I think he would ship you off to a convent personally, but being a companion to your dear old Aunt Francis in Plymouth wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

“Aunt Francis? I swear to heaven she howls at the moon, Alistair. No, don’t you dare laugh!” Verity narrowed her eyes on the brute. He was enjoying this, no doubt. “I won’t agree or play nice. If I’m to be put on a shelf, what makes you think I won’t first cause a scandal?”

Alistair’s jaw ticked. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, and pinned her with a stare so angry she swore he’d set fire to the drapes. “Maybe I should make this clear. It’s not optional. That is what is happening. I’ve been tasked with finding you a husband.”

She stepped back onto the carpet, fighting against the lump lodged in her throat.

She could cry later and scream into every pillow in her bedchamber.

But she’d never stoop so low as to let him see her so affected.

This wasn’t just about marriage. It was about being dismissed, displaced. Outgrown. Worse, forgotten.

“You know what your problem is, Your Grace?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“You think you’re impossible to resist. You think I will cave to your every whim because you walk through this world like you’re a king.”

“No, Miss Baxter,” he said smoothly. “I know I am.”

That did it.

She licked her lips, a thin, wicked grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Fine. Let’s make a wager, then.”

Alistair’s gaze flicked down to her mouth and stayed there, just long enough to be noticed. Just long enough for a shiver to chase down her spine.

His brow arched. “A wager.”

“Since you’re so confident in your charm, let’s see which of us lands an engagement first.”

“You think you could secure a husband before I could secure a wife, Miss Baxter?”

“I know I could.” She tilted her head, fighting back the giddy urge to dance at the way he squirmed in his seat. “Unless you’re frightened.”

“Of failing? Of you?” He stood, skirting around the table to approach her. “Never. But really, marriage? Any fool with a title can find a wife, and darling, need I remind you? I’m a duke. No, the terms would need to be different.”

Verity didn’t miss the warm, whisky cadence of his words as he slipped in that endearment. Even if he meant it condescendingly. She narrowed her eyes, fighting back the flutter in her chest. “Such as?”

He smiled, slow and self-assured. “Love. I’ll find someone I can truly fall for.” He nodded toward her. “And you find some poor sod brave enough to weather your temper and sharp tongue past the wedding breakfast.”

“Then it’s settled.” Her heart thundered, but she refused to show it. “We will each secure a match by the end of this Season. The first to receive a proper offer and accept it wins. Provided,” she added, with emphasis, “you actually fall in love.”

His bed was within reach now. “Fine, let’s keep this quiet between us, understood?”

“Afraid your good name will be tarnished in the gossip rags?” Verity tucked a stray curl behind her ear, waiting him out until finally she sighed. “Fine.”

Alistair rose from his seat, eager to return home at last. “And what, exactly, does the victor receive?”

She smiled sweetly. “Bragging rights.”

“And the loser?”

“You, on bended knee,” she said, standing toe-to-toe with him. “Admitting I was right and that you never stood a chance.”

Alistair stepped closer, his voice a low murmur. “Careful, Miss Baxter. I may very well win this wager. And then I’ll expect you to kneel.”

A spark of heat curled through her stomach, unwelcome and immediate. She refused to let it reach her face.

It would just mean kneeling to a man like Alistair Rutley. It would mean accepting what the world had already decided about her: That she was too much, too bold, and too odd to ever belong anywhere.

“I dare you to try.”