Page 4 of The Duke Who Dared Me (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #31)

- The Polite Observer

Hugh Nethercott, the Marquess of Brookhouse, was exactly the sort of man who turned heads for all the wrong reasons. Maybe it was the dimple, or mischievous light in his brown eyes, or maybe his complete disregard for the rules of society.

Either way, Verity had always liked him. Not for marrying, of course. That was for a more agreeable woman. Sweeter, maybe, who’d bend under his charm. Not the sort who collected breakable things and kept them perfectly intact while everything else in her life cracked at the edges.

“Miss Baxter,” Hugh murmured, bowing low over her gloved hand, “it’s been too long since I’ve had the pleasure of sharing a dance with you.”

Which, if she were honest, was likely for the best. The man left a wake of ruined women behind him across England and the Continent.

Charming, yes. But a gentleman? Definitely not.

If it weren’t for the fact that her mother had been friends with his mother, she’d have stayed away.

But not unlike Verity, he shared an interest in art and a dislike of marriage.

It was the basis for an amiable friendship over the years.

“Even my nephew has learned flattery gets him out of trouble, but you are a master, my lord.” Her lips curved into something like a smile as she skimmed the crowded ballroom for a particularly tall, brooding, entirely punchable duke.

“You have impeccable timing. I heard you only returned from the Continent last week.”

“It was a short trip.”

“Duels have a way of interrupting plans,” she said matter-of-factly.

The marquess grinned. “I should have known. Opera singers always complicate matters, and gossip is quick to spread in Town.”

“Married ones, at least.” She heard his snicker, but she was too busy to respond. Instead, she scanned the room, disappointed she didn’t spot the duke. She wanted to make sure he watched as she smiled and laughed and danced with London’s most infamous rake.

He thought it would be so easy to secure a wife, and a title certainly helped, but she hadn’t been told she was beautiful all her life not to realize she possessed a powerful currency in London as well.

Verity shook off her disappointment and returned her attention to the handsome man in front of her, who held out a glass of champagne.

“No lemonade?”

The damn rogue smirked. “If I didn’t know better, I would guess you are up to something this evening. Should I be concerned?”

“Are you in the market for a wife?”

He tossed back his head and laughed as she swallowed a large sip from her glass. “Currently? No.” He winked at her. “Now a mistress…”

Verity drew back, all feigned shock on her face. “Lord Brookhouse, in polite company? How dare you insult?—”

“Are you in the market for a husband?” He drew closer, finishing his drink and handing off his empty glass to a passing waiter. “It’s been a few Seasons now since your debut. I thought you’d had difficulty landing a match.”

“Is that what you’ve heard?” she asked coyly. “I’m discerning. There's a difference.”

“Difficult is what I’ve heard. There’s even a bet on the books about you at White’s.”

“Is that so?” Her heart drummed against her chest as she finished her champagne. “Do I want to know the details?” She forced a laugh, doing her best to pretend she wasn’t interested. But she knew what people said about her.

Verity Baxter, while beautiful, was also fickle, demanding, and headstrong.

The women in her acquaintance were only ever that .

Acquaintances . She possessed no true friends.

While it was clear at her debut that everyone either wanted to be her or be with her, it appeared now they preferred to hate her.

“Dance with me, Verity,” he said, switching topics. And for that, she was thankful. She preferred not to be left alone with her thoughts. Lately, she wasn’t good company, even to herself.

Hugh led her out farther onto the dance floor as the orchestra struck up. “You have a dangerous look about you this evening,” he whispered before he walked around her and stood in line with the rest of the male dancers.

Once the music began, she gracefully walked to Hugh and stepped around him, locking her eyes with his. “Pretend you are fascinated with me.”

He grinned, adjusting his grip at her waist. “Pretend?”

“Yes, you know I don’t like losing.”

The ballroom swirled around Verity as she weaved and ducked through the line of dancers. A strange flutter rippled through her chest as she spun and searched, certain she would set eyes upon the very man.

“It will be a terrible inconvenience to be interested in you, Verity.”

“It’s not like you to give up.”

Verity barely heard Hugh’s answering quip because he was watching her.

Alistair hovered near the edge of the ballroom, cravat crisp, shoulders squared, jaw clenched as if he were enduring some unspeakable torture. Beside him, Lady Clara fluttered her lashes like a moth recklessly flying into the light.

Verity smiled as Lord Brookhouse drew her closer. And then she laughed. Not forced, but not quite genuine either. Just loud enough to drift across the room, right where she knew it would land.

Alistair’s eyes darkened.

Hugh spun her again. “Oh, you clever minx.”

She pulled back and winked as her stomach dipped at Alistair’s glaring. “Not to worry, I won’t take up any more of your time this evening.”

“What if I told you I’ve enjoyed every minute of it? Was the aim to make the duke jealous?”

“Not jealous,” she corrected quickly, stuffing down the conclusions that word would bring around.

She was proving a point. That was all. That he was wrong about her. That she could be wanted. That she didn’t care if he noticed except, annoyingly, she did.

“What a good wife you will be someday, darling.”

When the dance ended, Hugh bowed, and she curtsied, ignoring the burning awareness of Alistair’s gaze still following her.

She should feel triumphant.

Instead, her stomach twisted as Hugh clasped her hand and brought it to his lips, holding it just a beat too long. It all felt wrong. Not because of Hugh, but because her plan wasn’t working as she intended.

She could wear the gown, smile at the proper moments, and charm a room, but there were days it felt like she’d missed some vital lesson all the other girls had learned, and she was simply pretending to know her part.

And worse, Hugh’s gloved hand didn’t feel like Alistair’s hand. Which was an absurd, marked difference for her even to register. She hated the man. Alistair’s hands were large and rough from years of refusing to wear gloves while riding. And far too confident.

He’d probably never once hesitated before touching a woman. Certainly not Lady Clara. The two were a picture. No doubt the darlings of the gossip rags in the morning.

He wouldn’t hold her hand like it was something delicate. He’d ruin her.

Verity pulled back too quickly and smiled too brightly.

“Careful, my lord,” Verity said lightly, though her heart gave a foolish little jump. “If you keep looking at me like that, people might think you mean to court me.”

Lord Brookhouse lifted a brow, his gaze never wavering. “I daresay some already do.”

She arched a brow, feigning surprise. “Because of a few dances?”

“Because of a certain wager,” he said softly. “The gossip columns are quite taken with your enterprising spirit.”

Enterprising? No, they simply were hungry to watch the impending social disaster.

Verity gave a little laugh and tapped her fan against his sleeve. “You mustn’t believe everything you read, Hugh.”

“Not everything,” he agreed, then leaned in slightly. “But some things I rather hope are true.”

She tilted her head. “Such as?”

“Such as the rumor that you’re finally in the market for a husband.”

She pretended to consider. “And if I were?”

His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then returned to her eyes. “Then I’d be very foolish not to make an offer.”

“But I’m not interested in a lie,” she said softly, brushing past him and toward escape. She didn’t care where. The garden, the hallway, she’d even hide in the library if she needed. She was partial to linen closets. Anywhere as long as she could escape the man staring at her across the room.

Those dark, determined eyes of his. That firm set to his brow. All tall, easy grace.

And for a heartbeat, she wondered what it would feel like if the man she was trying to provoke finally allowed himself to be provoked.

* * *

Alistair preferred the speed of a gallop to the crawl of polite conversation.

He liked knowing where he stood, with reins in hand and wind at his back, not hemmed in by chandeliers and champagne.

He attended these damn balls out of obligation to his title, his mother, and the thin pretense that he might someday find a suitable duchess who was as boring as she was amenable.

She would fulfill the duties needed and leave him to spend his days how he wished.

He’d been dodging the gossip all week, but he swore the entire ballroom quieted when he arrived an hour late to discover her already there on the dance floor.

Verity Baxter, with her wicked mouth and that gleam in her eyes, like she was plotting someone’s ruin.

It wasn’t hard to guess whose. Why, when he was eight, she threw his best pair of riding boots into the pond on his estate because he wouldn’t go riding with her.

That wasn’t the beginning, and it certainly wasn’t the end of the trouble between them.

He stood near the edge of the ballroom, smile fixed in his charming way that made society mamas sigh. But his gaze never left her.

Or the bloody peacock dancing with her. Lord Brookhouse. God help him.

The marquess looked like every mother’s nightmare and every daughter’s downfall—tall, dark-haired, with a lethal dimple that could melt any woman’s better judgment away.

He was also the exact sort of man Verity would choose to flaunt in Alistair’s face. Which meant this wasn’t a coincidence. It was war.