Page 5 of The Duke Who Dared Me (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #31)

But what was her endgame? The damn cad wouldn’t marry her. Did she want to be ruined? She’d lose the bet, and he hadn’t known her this long for her to be so careless. Had Percy underestimated her? Did she want to be a companion to her elderly aunt and live in the countryside?

“How are you enjoying the evening, Your Grace?” Lady Clara drew up beside him with small white flowers tucked into her blonde hair. “The musicians are excellent this evening.”

He dragged his attention back to the present, even as he twirled his signet ring around his pinky finger. The Duke of Cranbrook had sent the ring after the pair met at a private gallery the evening prior.

Clara’s pale-blonde curls were arranged in an elaborate twist, and her dress was a subdued rose-pink trimmed in cream.

She was wrapped up like a petit four, and by the way her mother had shoved her in his direction this evening, he supposed she was supposed to be his temptation.

She was the daughter of the Duke of Ladbrook, who recently made several bad mining investments.

“I’d agree,” he said absently. “They’re playing well.”

Clara beamed. “I heard you were musical. What instrument do you play?”

Alistair’s focus snapped back to the menace on the dance floor as she tossed her head back and laughed.

This woman never played by the rules, even in the house of someone who could make or break her reputation in society.

Which was precisely why Percy pleaded with him to put an end to this madness.

He sought to have his little sister settled and provided for before she could forever ruin her chances of a good match.

Not that she seemed to care.

He watched her hand on Nethercott’s shoulder. The way her eyes sparkled. The way she leaned in, a little closer than necessary. Or what would be considered polite, for that matter.

God above, she was performing. For him.

Alistair felt something hot and unpleasant curl beneath his ribs.

Irritation, surely.

Not jealousy. That would imply he cared who Verity danced with.

That he noticed the curve of her waist or how her burgundy gown dipped at the neckline in such a way it invited a lingering glance.

He remembered how she’d leaned close that afternoon in Percy’s drawing room and issued a challenge which had haunted him ever since.

“You seem distracted,” Clara offered gently. “It must be a heavy burden being everyone’s ideal before you’ve had the chance to be your own.”

He was too young to be saddled with his father’s title.

That he knew. But as far as ever being his own?

That was never going to be a luxury Alistair would experience.

He grew up titled, with the expectation he would become the Duke of Tunstall and continue the good work his father saw to, here in London and in their small village in Kent.

Yes, he was privileged, but his life was predestined.

He would serve his title. Eventually, he would marry because he must.

Alistair cleared his throat, struck by her observation. “Apologies. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

Concern etched across Clara’s features. “Oh. Perhaps you should retire early this evening?”

Alistair didn’t answer because, across the ballroom, Verity winked at Nethercott— actually winked —and now, the sorry excuse for a man was bowing over her hand like some silly sophead.

He took a long, deep breath, trying to find an ounce of calm. “Would you care to dance, Lady Clara?”

Her face lit with pleasure. “I’d be honored, Your Grace.”

The ballroom crush was in full effect now as he led them out to dance.

It was a tall room with elaborate frescos and gilded walls, and somehow the noise still echoed.

The orchestra and guests buzzed and sang, and his heart beat wildly in his chest as he attempted to keep a calm, unbothered appearance.

He was a duke, after all. He was respected. Hell, until last week, he was above petty bets.

But as he placed his hand gently on Clara’s waist and turned them into the first steps of the waltz, his gaze drifted. Verity stood alone now, her fan half lifted in front of her face as she scanned the room. Not looking for Hugh.

Looking for him.

As their eyes met, his grip on Clara’s waist tightened for a beat too long. Verity didn’t smile, didn’t move, only pinned him there onto the dance floor like one of the many butterflies she collected from the gardens at Warwick Cottage. He wondered if she realized she only collected fragile things.

“Your Grace?” Clara gently tapped her fingers upon his shoulder and spun.

“Yes?”

The pair weaved in and out of couples until they spun around one another, and Alistair drew Lady Clara close. He should ask her something about herself, be polite, and make conversation. She was, after all, the most convenient option for a bride at the end of the Season.

A wife? Was he seriously putting any credibility to this wager? He was a damn duke. He could do as he wished. He didn’t need to marry to win a bet because his friend’s little sister was stubborn.

“Are you well?”

He nodded, resisting the urge to glance back at Verity. He could feel her staring.

“Do you have any interests, Lady Clara?”

She was a petite woman with a shapely figure and the most demure, graceful features he had ever seen. Maybe it was the pink gown, but she seemed a fair deal more reserved than the rest of the debutantes in attendance this evening.

“I prefer the country, Your Grace. I’m fond of reading and drawing, and I have the most loyal pug named Pudding.”

At least they were compatible. Yes, Alistair enjoyed London, but he never loved the demands on him here. At least in the country, he was afforded more time at the stable.

“Do you have any pets, Your Grace?”

“I have a godson, Colin. Does that count?”

His stiff delivery didn’t deter her. She smiled again, delighted.

“I suspect a baby is more demanding than a pug, though Pudding is very particular about his afternoon nap.”

The silence grew between them as the dance stretched on.

He tried to focus his attention on her, discussing her mother’s gardens and the last interesting novel she read.

He tried, truly, but his focus was still stuck on the woman in the wings of the ballroom, no doubt waiting for him to trip or make a fool of himself.

“You dance very well, Your Grace,” Clara murmured.

“Thank you.”

“I hope I’m not being forward when I say I’ve always admired your devotion to your family. Your mother speaks so fondly of you.”

His jaw clenched. “Does she?”

“She does. And I’m sure she would be very pleased to see you married soon.”

There it was.

He looked down at Clara’s hopeful expression and thought about Verity’s wicked grin when he agreed to her stupid wager. At that moment, he had agreed to nearly anything to help his friend.

Well. If she wanted a game, she’d get one.

After all, Clara was perfectly respectable. Charming, even. He could court her. Pay her calls. And if it came to it, make her an offer. It would be easy.

And yet, as the dance ended, Clara curtsied, and he escorted her back to her mother before ducking out of the crowded room to find the nearest escape out in the gardens.

He needed air. And damn it all, he needed to stop thinking about Verity Baxter.

The wager had been a mistake. A stupid, childish mistake. He didn’t want to be married until he absolutely must. But now? Now, he wanted to win. If anyone was going to drive the other mad, it would be him. Not her.

Not her.

Never her.