Duke of Dalliance (Revenge of the Wallflowers #53)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

T ruly did her best to compose herself over the disappointment of Miss Genevieve Rutledge’s absence from the charity luncheon she had insisted Truly give. A forced smile would have to do, but the self-centered girl wasn’t likely to notice and certainly wasn’t likely to care.

“Truly,” Geneive called when she was close enough to be heard without shouting. The demure blonde, who would be quite gorgeous except for her tendency toward falsified friendship, took Truly’s hands and gave her a short jerk like she was quieting a mare with a twitch of the reins. “I thought you’d never get here.”

“I had to wait for the fundraiser to end before I could prepare for the ball.”

Genevieve gasped, throwing a hand against her chest for good measure. “I completely lost track of the time. I am so sorry. Can you ever forgive me? I was dealing with something else quite important.” She leaned in, looping her arm through Truly’s and confiding in a giggling whisper, “It may well lead to a proposal.”

Truly gave her a sideways glance, minus the eye roll she wished to give. Both women were dressed in the same shade of bleached tea, but with Truly’s dark hair and Genivieve’s fashionable blond, they were hard to miss. That was what Truly counted on. Eligible grown men were often taken with shining blond hair, and standing close to Miss Rutledge would put her in their shining line of sight. At her age, she was more apt to attract a fop or a dandy, but she preferred a full-grown man who knew himself and his worth. Someone settled in his income and safe, for lack of a better term. Since her mother’s passing, she no longer felt protected. There was every chance that her income would stop, and she wasn’t about to wait for that. Her mother never wished for her to follow in her footsteps. That path held too many broken hearts.

Her friend led her to a small gathering of young women. Girls really. They were a mere year older than Truly. Some, like Genevieve, were brashly outspoken, older than they appeared. But most just looked like girls to Truly. She had yet to decide whether girlish or womanly was better for baiting the matrimonial hook. Youth was on her side, but pretending to be youthfully na?ve exhausted her. She battled with the idea of being someone she wasn’t versus someone with a dismal future.

As she drew closer to but another disingenuous ninny who had deserted her today, she wondered if it was worth all this trying. All the lavish balls and dresses, and fans, the frippery, the cost to her mental health. She wondered if there was another way out of marrying a man she had no interest in for the sake of survival. Because that’s what lay in front of her. Survival.

Next to her stood two blondes, one redhead, a brunette, and then Truly. Her hair was not quite black, not quite brown, but somewhere in between, like earthy pitch—if that were a thing. It was, anyhow, appropriate to her plight. She did not fit in. She was not one of them. And she no longer had the luxury of not caring.

She gave a quick nod to each and silently repeated their names, using little expletives for their unconcerned absence from her party. There is nothing more undermining than being left out.

“Oh, Truly, look at my dance card.” Miss Tenworthy, a witless blonde, pulled a gold filigree-lined note card from her reticule and showed it to Truly. “I spent all afternoon making it. What do you think?”

“I cannot say except that it’s lovely.” More like she could not say what she wished to say, like what a selfish little half-baked fishmonger to skip her party in order to make a silly card used to tout one’s popularity. Truly smiled and felt the ugly pull of her mouth. Her attitude was dying in the embers of failed friendships, and she feared it showed. She was becoming someone she did not like. Ironically, it was just the kind of person these girls adored. Hateful, rude, gossipy, jealous with a sidekick of envy. It enveloped her. It smothered the goodness her mother had inspired. Truly Ashamed was more like her name now, a far cry from Truly Loved, as her mother used to say.

She endured standing on the sidelines while her friends danced. She shot daggers at any man who even looked interested. This was counterproductive, but the truth was that she did not feel like being there. It had been a day so full of rejection that it still hurt, and she didn’t know how much more her heart could conceal. When she saw Genevieve lose herself toward the library, a place for fast conversation and unladylike liaisons, Truly tore her gaze from the merrymakers and took for the terrace.

Open French doors led to a beautiful patio where stone steps and the scent of gardenias lured couples to stray along lantern-lit pathways. Older women might get away with a stroll in the moonlight, but at her age, she was pushing the bounds of propriety to sail straight for the far side of the terrace, where the torchlight and a waxing gibbous moon created concealing shadows.

She weaved through the little throng of guests enjoying the night air, careful not to spare them a glance, as she stepped into the shadow cast by the corner of the manor and almost tripped over a man’s outstretched leg.

“Oh, for the love of Peter and the Apostle Paul,” she huffed, barely saving herself from stepping on her skirts and tumbling into an unforgettable humiliation, not to mention a head injury.

She heard a deep, hearty chuckle, seeing the wide smile of a handsome rogue with a cheroot clamped between his teeth.

“Put it out,” she called without thinking.

Pinched between his fingers, he removed the cheroot and flicked it over the rail.

“That’s a good way to start a fire, you know?” She brushed down her skirts, bending as far as her stays permitted. Then, without thinking, she lifted her skirts to check her twisted ankle, turning her foot, toe to stone, back and forth.

He pulled in his feet but continued leaning his backside against the balustrade, smiling at her as if she were the evening's entertainment. And perhaps she was.

She pulled herself up, giving a shrug and stretching one shoulder while shimmying her hips to settle that last flounce of her skirt in place. “It’s just that I’m allergic. It’s not you.” It wasn’t like her to be so brash or outspoken.

That rich chuckle turned his smile lethal. “Well, my love, if you’d given me a chance, I would have asked permission to light it. I’m that kind of man.”

She gave him a thorough pass. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

“You can tell by looking at me? Or is it that you know me?”

“You didn’t ask permission to caress my ankle with your lecherous stare.” Her attitude was driven by the last straw.

“Ah, but you didn’t give me a chance, did you? Besides, the cheroot was not lit.” He folded his arms. “Lecherous?” He shook his head. “Lecherous,” he repeated. “I can’t find fault with your assumption, but the word is odious.”

“In regard to you or just in general?”

He pulled his chin close to his chest in a rather believable laugh. “What is your name, love?”

“Not love.”

“Exactly.” He was still laughing. “It’s only an expression. I’m left to wonder if you’ve never conversed with a man before.”

“I’m left to wonder whether you’ve ever tamed a lady whose obvious temper has gotten the better of her before .”

“I’d never tame a lady. `Twould be a waste. Now,” he said, putting a finger to his cheek, “if you had asked whether I’d ever debauched a lady, that would be something different.”

She crossed her arms and simply stared at him, cocking her head like he was a child.

“You have to tell me who you are. I’m having too much fun.”

“I’m a distracted girl, tired of rejection, if you must know.” Truth had always been easier than fiction for Truly.

His gaze played over her, resting on all the provocative places. In response, she crossed out of the thread of light, backing up against the plastered brick wall of the house, the cold exterior permeating her gloved hands. With any hope, he couldn’t see the defeat in her eyes. Her shoulders fell away as she slumped into obscurity.

“Number one, puss, you are clearly not a girl but a woman.” He held up a hand as she opened her mouth for a retort. “I’m not simply speaking of the obvious physical attributes. No one but a confident grown woman would curse herself onto a crowded patio.”

“It’s not crowded here, and tis not my usual behavior.”

“And a girl would have cowed away from that statement. But not you. So, why don’t you tell me what happened that made a quiet girl respond so erratically.” The statement was full of cheek, daring her not to stay silent.

Sliding her hands behind her back, she leaned in. “It’s a sad story and one I’m certain you cannot relate to.”

He shrugged, lifting his hands, palm up, in surrender. “Assumptions are dangerous, and far be it from me to ask you to do something dangerous.”

Pushing away from the house, she daringly strolled to the balustrade and turned her rump to the rail, mimicking his pose. He watched her with something akin to appreciation if she read men correctly. But without the practical education, how would she know? “Have you ever had a disappointing day where your friends let you down?”

“Of course.”

“Friends who should not be letting you down because you’ve done them a fine service, and they should at least have the decency to reciprocate once in a while?”

“This terrible thing has happened more than once, I take it?”

She nodded. “Too many times to go unnoticed.”

“Well then, puss, they don’t sound like friends.”

“They don’t, do they?” She scrubbed the toe of her shoe across the stone in front of her, wishing for a rock to kick around. She looked at him sideways, biting her cheek and wanting more than anything to confide in someone who might take her side. But she didn’t know this man. Not to mention, he was a man . The whole conversation was not acceptable, but she couldn’t help herself for wanting it.

“You call yourself a girl, so how old are you?”

“Are you asking if it’s my first year?”

He cocked his head in answer.

“I am nineteen, and it should be my second year, and the girls in question have been at this game much longer than I have. No doubt their behavior is rooted well into their youth.”

“Nineteen?” He crossed his arms once more, a slight disappointment in the shade of a grimace across his mouth. She should never have looked there because his mouth had the kind of quality that could seem demandingly hard when needed and soft as a kiss also when needed. Things only the daughter of a mistress might understand. There were some lessons her mother imparted, not because she wished the same life for Truly, but because she believed women were kept ignorant against all reason.

“My name is not Puss. It’s not Sweet. It’s not Love.”

He gave a formal bow, his arms wide. “My apologies. So, perhaps you tell me what name you prefer.”

“Yours, for one.” When he didn’t readily answer, she turned his question around. “And what are you doing here?

“I’m hiding from someone who did not see a skeleton, apparently. Whatever that means.”

That answer sparked an unexpected chuckle from her. She flipped open her fan, hiding her face behind it. Her eyes watered, clearing a path through the depression clouding her view.

“There is obviously something here I don’t understand.”

“It’s…it’s a stupid game that girls play. How old is the girl who claimed you?”

“Definitely not a girl. And you don’t have to tell me she was playing games. That is all she knows.” Looking over his shoulder, he idly checked the garden.

“And you’re not a boy, I take it?” Obviously, he was not. His black formal jacket fitted snugly over broad shoulders, and he possessed the chiseled jawline of a grown man and a beguiling mouth that surely had seen more kisses than Adonis.

“At eight and twenty, I’m hardly a boy.” He smiled at her daring. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind explaining this girl’s game, perhaps I can avoid tripping over it again as you did my feet.”

She folded her fan, her eyes squinting with a smile. “Pointing out my lack of grace is not a good way to entice me into revealing all my secrets to a perfect stranger. Especially one determined to make an arse of himself.”

“Ah, so we have met before. Why don’t I remember you?” His tone was playfully mocking as he rested his brooding chin against his closed fist, leaving his other hand tucked in the crook of his arm.

“Miss Hancock.” She offered her hand, and he took it with a wary slant of a brow. “Your turn,” she said.

Bent over her hand, he watched her through his lashes for a full ten seconds before he straightened. “Dalliance.”

She could no more stop her surprised gasp than she could stop herself from snapping her hand from his grasp. This was the worst gentleman she could have confided anything in whatsoever.

“I see you at least recognize the name, if not the man.”

She swallowed while her gaze made another sweep of his person. His long, lean legs, trim waist, broad shoulders, lethally handsome face, and sandy-brown hair gave his hard lines a boyish charm that no doubt lured one to trust him, as she apparently did now. “You are a little infamous.”

“A little infamous is a contradiction.”

“Then I am afraid you are a contradiction. Or perhaps I’m not that interesting.”

“If I’d known you were waiting for me to accost you, I’d have…” he paused with a devious grin and then continued, “I’d have left.” He winked. “Is that what you expected?”

“We’ll never know, will we?”

“You’re not going to allow me to win one, are you, Miss Hancock?”

She shook her head, holding onto a confident grin. “I play for keeps. I play to win. I employ all the strategies I know.”

“Would you like some advice?”

“From you?” She gave him a skeptical squint, but only in play. “Perhaps I should take it. I’m hardly graceful, as you’ve witnessed. I do not require the slow gait of a tall gentleman when I can outpace one with ease.” She wiggled a leg under her skirt. “I’m too tall if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I didn’t know a woman could be too anything. If you think so, then you don’t know men.”

“I believe that’s what I was trying to say. Now, I’m simply waiting for your unadulterated advice, but you seem to have the gift of gab, which nearly always belongs to a woman. In which case, how can I trust you?”

He laughed outright. “You don’t need much advice, Miss Hancock. I’m afraid you’re unaware of the strategic game you play quite naturally. Lose what you think you know, and just be yourself. It’s rather appealing.”

“I’m looking to win a man over with my beguiling, usually quiet and boring personality.” She fluttered her lashes.

“All right. My advice is to lose these friends of yours and to never play or reveal all your strategies at once. The game must be interesting, and that, my sweet, takes time.”

She looked at him askance, cocking an irritated brow.

“It also takes patience and the grace to accept some things as canon, like the little pet names men like to give. They’re not meant to be condescending.”

“Puss is condescending because it sounds like a child.”

His smirking half-grin gave her pulse a little leap. “I remind you that you tripped over my feet.”

She turned to face him completely, leaning a hip elegantly against the rail. “Your Grace, clumsiness is adorably attractive.” It was a lie, of course.

He raised both brows, uncrossing his arms. “That, my dear, is the perfect strategy.”

Her chest filled with confidence for his encouraging words, true or no. “I’m afraid your reputation is not one of selective esteem.

“I will have you know that I am a connoisseur of women. I only collect the best.”

She examined his face; the warm amber of his eyes filled with simple sincerity. Clearly, he was serious. “Let’s lose the subjective sabers for a moment.”

“And there you are again. Your knack for conversation is perfection, Miss Hancock.”

At his approval, she felt a warm feeling of acceptance. There was every chance she was overreacting to the constant rejection she had grown used to and perhaps to the charm of a rake. “And the game?”

“This one?” He circled the space between them.

She chuckled, smiling more in the last fifteen minutes than she had in the last fifteen days. “No. The skeleton in the mirror.”

“Yes.” He snapped his fingers and turned to face her. “What the living hell is that? And she said in her boudoir.”

She took his language as a compliment to the odd connection building between them. “Were you there? In her boudoir? Not that I’m judging.” She gestured with a hand to her chest for good measure.

“According to her, I was. But no. Absolutely not.”

Truly bit into a laughing smile. “I’m trying to decide whether to torture you a little longer. You were right. This is fun.” She felt at ease and strangely rejuvenated. She could hardly wait to reveal the rules of the game.