Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
D alliance was shocked, charmed, and otherwise taken by complete surprise by the delightfully outspoken woman who carelessly tripped over him. Sparring with her, he felt as if he’d tripped over an unpolished jewel. Raw, beautiful, missed. While she perched a womanly hip against the rail beside him, he was calculating how long they could stay concealed before her delicate reputation was ruined by a passerby witnessing them so involved. Her proximity was not that of a respectable debutante, and he didn’t wish her any more pain than she’d obviously been treated to today.
But he also wanted to know about the skeleton and why that one sentence made her laugh outright. He might have felt foolish for it, but she was too beautiful, too candid, too everything to let go.
“I would approve if you didn’t care to torture me. At least not in this way. Far be it from me to turn down something so provoking otherwise.”
Her laughter shifted to an inquisitive smile, forming a small vee between her dark, winged brows, making him wish to smooth it with his thumb. Against all good and reasonable judgment, given the rake that he was, he wanted to kiss her. He truly did. At least her age kept his sparring libido in check.
“I’ve confused you.” He took a mental step back.
She gave a little thought-clearing shake of her head. The threads of her black hair caught a wink of torchlight, igniting the color with tiny streaks of fire like the fuse of a powder keg. “No.” Closing her eyes, she shook her head again. “Actually, no, you haven’t. I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked that you would mention such a thing, being who you are.”
Now, he was confused. “And who would that be?” He couldn’t help himself from asking, and he hoped to God she would answer. This little game just got intriguing.
“Dalliance,” she said with conviction. “I apologize. The Duke of Dalliance.” She grimaced. “Dallimain.” She sighed. “Oh, for the love of Pete. You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do. Do you?”
The torchlit rosy hue of her cheeks would no doubt be radish red in the bright glow of the ballroom.
He crossed his arms, waiting. “Surely, you won’t disappoint me now with silence, will you?”
“I’m trying to explain what the skeleton is.” The words tripped out of her as if she were making them up as she went along.
“Yes,” he said, letting her off the hook and trying to remember her age. Except how would a nineteen-year-old debutante know anything provoking about the kind of torture he alluded to? She should know nothing of bedsport. Right? He dismissed that thought in favor of the more pressing question about the skeleton. “What is this game with the skeleton, Miss Hancock?”
She licked her lips, stiffening into an awkward standing position, her arms pinned to her sides as if she didn’t trust herself. “I believe I should return to the ball. My absence will start speculation that I cannot afford. Perhaps you can, but I am not a…a mistress.”
Mistress? Could she really be? A proper lady would never have used such a word. “I never meant to imply that you were.”
“It’s my fault. I should’ve stopped the conversation before it started."
Now he straightened; a measure of concern pricked his heart for some reason. “It was an innocent conversation.”
“Was it?” She lowered her gaze to his feet. “I hope your foot survived. Thank you for the distraction. Despite my foolishness, it was helpful.”
With that, she excused herself, and he watched her walk away, befuddled by her abrupt change. He looked at the cheroot lying in the grass just below the railing, proof that he hadn’t dreamed her up. Biting his lip, he followed the terrace to the stairs and retrieved the cheroot, then passed it to a footman as he re-entered the ballroom, his gaze sweeping the crowd, looking for the woman with sable hair.
The stir his presence caused in a crowded ballroom filled with hens and chicks was difficult to ignore. He felt their eyes on him, the push of the crowd as these not-so-subtle ladies began making their collective way through the throng. It wasn’t a rush but a slow, deliberate gathering of force. If he stayed in one place too long, it would close around him, bury him until he was pressed with his back against the wall.
He'd been pursued for so long that he’d almost forgotten how exhilarating chasing a contrary woman could be, which is how he found himself following a nineteen-year-old debutante into a sea of eligible vipers. Why this one? And so young. But she didn’t seem too young. Somewhere in the world, she’d gathered more experiences, more sorrow, more obstacles than a woman twice her age.
The whole conversation on the balcony had fascinated him. Even the end of it, however abrupt. Then, he spotted her—several inches taller than most women but equal to the one woman he did not want to see. And the chit was standing next to her. One blond. One sable. The contrast could not be missed. The game just got complicated, and as if the mere thought could create a stir, Miss Rutledge caught him staring in her direction. Her beaming smile outshined her lustrous hair.
He couldn’t deny that Genevieve Rutledge was beautiful, in many ways more so than this stranger, but something about Miss Hancock charged him. He felt awake, alive in her presence. Interested.
Yes, interested.
Her appeal was not in her midnight, sable hair or her pillowy lips that stood out against the warm glow of her skin. Somehow, she tackled the prim color of her gown and the woman standing beside her. Miss Hancock made him take a second look. She had an acerbic tongue, but so did Miss Rutledge. He loathed Miss Rutledge’s bitterness, but conversely, he could have listened to Miss Hancock all night.
Standing in the shadow of the house, he had wanted to kiss her, no doubt about it, but first, he wanted to talk to her. And that was the difference. In his overindulgent, intimate encounters with women, he’d just as soon kiss first and talk later if necessary. He’d thought of it as living up to his reputation and didn’t give much heed to the fact that perhaps he hadn’t met a woman who interested him beyond the bedroom.
Until an awkward woman tripped over his feet and commanded him to throw out his cheroot. Fierce tenacity and a gall that matched his. This was a new game. One he had yet to play.
But damn it all, if Miss Hancock was not standing with Miss Rutledge.
First, Miss Rutledge’s body turned toward him, then the woman looped her arm through Miss Hancock’s, and before he could bolt, they were on a path bound for him. If he left now, Miss Hancock might think he was rejecting her when it was Miss Rutledge he wished to avoid. Then it dawned on him. It must have been Genevieve Rutledge who had abandoned Miss Hancock earlier today. The not-so-promising friend she’d spoken of on the balcony. His dislike for the catty woman increased twofold.
He stood his ground. He would not meet Miss Rutledge halfway and give her the impression he wished for her company.
He took the extra time to pluck two glasses of champagne from a tray held by a serving footman. When the ladies reached him, he handed a glass to Miss Rutledge while hoping for a proper introduction before offering Miss Hancock the other glass.
“Dalliance,” Miss Rutledge dared to call him. “You haven’t met my friend, Miss Truly Hancock.”
Miss Hancock gave a stiff curtsy. “Your Grace.”
“My pleasure, Miss Hancock.” He bowed his head and offered her the other glass. “If you please. What a lovely name.”
She wouldn’t look at him. Instead, she steadied her gaze at his eyebrows, then his nose, then his mouth, all the while holding onto a stiff, quiet expression. Restrained if not demure. “My mother liked it, I suppose. But thank you.”
What an odd answer. “And how do you and Miss Rutledge know one another?”
Miss Hancock shot Miss Rutledge a sideways glance that fell to the woman’s chin and failed to be a mutual greeting between the so-called friends.
“Of course, we would know one another,” Miss Rutledge said. “She’s the daughter of a duke. I would have assumed you knew her.”
“I can’t say I do.” His gaze never faltered. “Who is your father, my dear?”
“The Duke of Justamere.”
“Justamere? He’s nearly thirty. Quite young to have a daughter, don’t you think?”
Miss Rutledge tittered, tapping him with her closed fan. “No, you silly man. The late duke. Not the son. Miss Hancock has never met the current Justamere. Perhaps that’s why she didn’t clarify.”
Miss Hancock drained her glass of champagne, watching him the entire time.
He was beginning to understand. This was the woman Genevieve Rutledge mentioned in the garden. The bastard daughter of a duke. The story was beginning to make sense. “I’ve met him. Your brother is a good man.”
“Her half-brother,” Miss Rutledge mentioned, syrup dripping from her viper’s fangs like venom.
Miss Hancock examined her empty glass but said nothing.
“Is your dance card full, Miss Hancock?” From the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Rutledge throw him a caustic look. He turned a glowing smile full of inward contempt on the jealous snob. “Miss Rutledge, your card is always full. I’m certain you won’t miss your friend for a quick turn.”
“Of course not,” she said, her mouth in a hard line until Miss Hancock shot her a glance, then Genevieve Rutledge poured on the butter. “Please, Truly, dance with him. It shouldn’t hurt your reputation. Dalliance may even improve it.”
“I’m not much for dancing, Your Grace. Your time would be better spent with Miss Rutledge, I’m certain.”
He took a cleansing breath, full of disappointment, and looked at the viper. “I bow to your counsel. What say you, Miss Rutledge?”
There was never any doubt that Genevieve Rutledge would agree. She even did so with a wide smile and eyes that screamed I told you so .
“I knew you’d come for me,” Miss Rutledge said as he escorted her toward the dancing. With a waltz already underway, he thought it better to hitch himself to half a dance with her than to wait for a quadrille and be forced to conceal his irritation with the woman for an entire set.
“As always, your confidence is unfounded, I promise.”
“Dalliance, you cannot lie to me,” she said as he swung her into a twirl, her ballgown reeling about her ankles like a storm in a teapot.
“And is that because you are a liar, or do you have some talent for reading minds I’m unaware of?”
“Bite if you must, but you will not find me complaining.”
“You’ve been bitten before, I take it?” This was seasonal banter but not nearly as fun as his conversation with Miss Hancock. It lacked the same exhilaration. The same life-charging anecdote.
“You’re dying to tell me, so who is she?”
“Miss Hancock, do you mean?” For the first time, Dalliance heard fear in the question. Oh, this Miss Hancock had taken something from Miss Rutledge’s usual dramatic flare. “She is the bastard daughter I referred to earlier today.”
“Ah, the one you thought I should pursue.”
“No. The one I warned you about.”
“She’s evil, then?”
“She’s the beginning of a blooming bad reputation.”
“One you’re eager for?”
“Stop it. I’m eager for you, if you must know.”
“That, my dear, is not a secret. Now, who is she?”
“I told you. The bastard daughter of a duke and the sister of a man she’s never met. Not to mention, she’s the daughter of the late duke’s mistress. Or so I’m told.”
He wanted to snap his fingers at that moment. The pieces were falling into place, and this sniping woman in his arms was jealous of a courtesan's illegitimate offspring. So much so that she’d as soon pick away at the lovely girl than befriend her. It was time to kill two problems with one duke. One to dissuade the adder’s venom from disabling him. Two, to help one well-deserving wallflower find her way into a society that would rather maim than mend.
* * *
After the ball, more precisely, after the dance with Miss Rutledge, Dalliance didn’t see the lovely Miss Hancock again. He hardly slept last night thinking about her, trying to imagine what horrid things Miss Rutledge had planned for her and unable to stand by and watch. For reasons unknown to him, he felt responsible, like he should help. He penned her a note asking permission to call upon her.
Two hours later, he received a reply.
Your Grace,
I apologize for my rude introduction last night, but I find it would be ill-advised to be seen visiting with you in my place of residence. Your name alone begs for rumor.”
Sincerely,
Miss Truly Hancock
Miss Hancock,
Let me begin by saying it was a charming introduction. Adorable, I’m told. Where you believe my name fits me, I also believe yours fits you. Truly, I do. A pun for you to enjoy today while you wonder about the truth of our first meeting. Besides, I believe I can help you find your way through this season of friendships.
As was appropriate, the good woman did not return an answer. He was driven to either stalk her at her home or follow her—which only reminded him of Miss Rutledge stalking him to the Pleasure Gardens.
Or he could send her flowers like a besotted fool.
As it turned out, he was a fool.