Chapter Two
N ow all he had to do was bump into Lady Simone, ask her to dance, and have a sham courtship.
The details of the bet had been set. Bump into a lady. Dance with her. Court her. Propose to her. And of course, she wasn’t allowed to know of the bet. That would throw everything off. To Samuel, it wasn’t part of the bet if the woman said yes or no to the proposal. Likely, he assumed the woman would say yes, because really, what woman would say no to him?
He was a handsome, wealthy, young duke. And he had a decent personality. Or, more precisely, up until this time, his personality hadn’t been harsh enough to deter any ladies.
Speaking of not deterring ladies, there was Her Grace, the dowager Duchess of Melson. She was making a beeline for him. He knew what that entailed. She had already tried to set him up with several ladies. How many nieces, god-daughters, and other female relatives of marrying age could one woman have?
Apparently, the answer was infinite. For they just kept coming. And each one that came gave him a new headache.
The first one had spelled her name for him. Her name had been Jane. Jane with an e , she had said. The dance couldn’t have been short enough after that opener. The next one wasn’t sure where the continent was. The entire continent. She wasn’t sure if England was north of it, south, east, or west.
The next few ladies the dowager had finagled a dance for were ruthless gossips. He still wasn’t sure what their angle was. Should he be impressed that they knew so much about the ton that they could recite whose dresses were a season out of style? Or was he supposed to commiserate with them and lament the deterioration of society as one knew it all because one wore too much lace? Or was it ribbons?
And after that, Wesley hadn’t kept a very clear record of who was who. All he knew was that he dreaded the sight of the dowager, and he avoided her at all costs.
So, with her in sight, and he with a game plan for at least part of the evening, he strategized a getaway. In theory, it should be simple. Keep an eye on her while backing up just enough to make a quick turn and dart toward Lady Simone. Then commence the bumping.
If only theories always worked the way they should…well, then science as the world knew it would be an entirely different game. The theory worked as far as keeping his eyes on her and backing up.
“Wesley, are you—” Samuel had a smirk on his face as he darted a glance between Wesley and the duchess.
He was smirking because he knew what was coming if Wesley didn’t make a clean escape. And, of course, instead of aiding and abetting the runner, Samuel lifted two fingers to acknowledge—and welcome!—the dowager.
“Traitor,” Wesley hissed and flashed angry blue eyes at his friend. In response, Samuel’s wavy long locks jostled in laughter. Wielding a bit of a rebellious streak, Samuel was the only one in their posse with longer hair. The other three could almost pass for brothers, with Wesley being the most uptight of them. And right now, Wesley was especially resentful of the mischief in his friend’s countenance. That man could play dirty when he wanted to. And there was a lot at stake.
Flustered, Wesley took a few extra steps backward, therefore making his swift turn further away from his intended target, and—
THUNK!
Drat. Something soft and pliable met his elbow. And then something lukewarm and wet dripped down the back of his calf.
This was the last thing he needed. Some over imbibing imbecile throwing his drink all over his breeches.
Mid-turn, heart hammering, all to avoid the dowager and engage in this already irritating bet, Wesley started to confront the man who was obviously at fault. “What the deuc—” and mid-thought he realized the voice leaking an expletive didn’t belong to a man at all, but a lady. “—duke?”
And if Wesley hadn’t been flustered beyond belief, trying to avoid the dowager at all costs, as well as working his way to Lady Simone who liked him less than he liked her (which should have been an affront to his ego but was not), he probably would have noticed a few things about the lady holding the lemonade.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” the sweet voice drifted over his head.
“Never mind. Just—just…needs to be cleaned up.” He wasn’t looking at her downcast head of golden locks as he scanned the room for a footman.
Catching the eye of one, he raised his handkerchief saying, “Here.”
The lady then looked up and saw the raised cloth. A flash of umbrage flew across her eyes. She snatched the cloth with a grumble he couldn’t make out.
Shocked that she snatched his handkerchief from his fingers, he snapped at her, “What are you doing?”
“Am I too slow, Your Grace?” she bit off. All sweetness evaporated.
“No, of course not.”
She bent down before he could say another word and placed the cloth on the ground to soak up the liquid.
“Get up,” he grumbled.
“Would you make up your mind?” she volleyed.
Nettled, he took her hand in his. A current shot through him, but he was far too vexed to give it much credence. “Stop that,” he ground out. “You’ll make a scene.”
“Anything but a scene, Your Grace.” She curtsied, but he couldn’t help but feel it was a mocking tone.
What did he care? Finish the curtsy and be gone. He had a bet to work on.
The woman stood and glared at him with the clearest blue eyes he had ever seen. And then she was gone.
Thank God. He sighed and started to head toward Lady Simone.
“Ahem,” Samuel cleared his throat, suddenly appearing beside him. “Aren’t you going to ask her to dance?” He smiled coyly. “Oh, I see, you’re playing a game first. All the power to you.”
“What game? What dance?” Wesley furrowed his brows.
Samuel merely flicked his wrist toward the woman with the lemonade splattered hem.
“What about her?” Wesley didn’t have time for this. He needed to go bump into Lady Simone.
“She’s the one you bumped into first, isn’t she?”
Panic shot through Wesley. Pure, undiluted panic. It rippled up from his toes and settled between his shoulders.
“That. Was. Not. A. Bump.”
“You backed up into her elbow did you not? Physical contact was made and all that.” Samuel was grinning like a lunatic. Like a triumphant lunatic.
“I’m telling you, it wasn’t a bump.”
“No? What would you call it?” Samuel turned to Chris and James, both mirroring each other’s expression. That is, tight lips and raised brows. “Chris? James? Was it a bump?”
“I’m staying out of this one,” Chris said.
James merely shrugged. “Could have been.”
“It wasn’t a bump,” Wesley maintained for the third time. As if saying something three times made it true. “It was a thunk.”
Samuel belted a laugh. “That’s classic.” He slapped Wesley on the shoulder. “Twisting the bet to your favor at your whim.” He shook his head. “I should have known that you would renege.”
“I’m not reneging on anything,” he spoke through gritted teeth. “If you want to call that a bump,” he forced the words out, “then call it a bump.”
“I did.” Samuel shot the three a wide grin. “I declare that was a bump. The bump. Let’s be clear.” His eyes narrowed. “That’s the lady.”
That thunk apparently had been the bump that sealed Wesley’s fate.
*
What the duke? The pompous invective echoed in Boudicca’s ears like a gong being repeatedly hit over and over again, not even giving time for the reverberations to complete their rounds. What kind of arrogant arse was vain enough to curse using his own title? Of all the haughty, self-important, egotistical things she had ever heard, that had to sit at the top. In fact, it sat high above the rest. For a man to equate himself to a deity…it rankled, and it rankled deep. Deeper than the shivering that had shot through her when he grabbed her hand. Deeper than where that shot had settled between her thighs.
Ugh. That man. That duke. Her sisters could choose any duke except that one, and she would play along. Of course she would be steering him ultimately to a rejection, but she would play along with her sisters’ dare just long enough to satisfy them.
“Bodi,” Mimi squealed in her ear. “The Duke of Baskim. Aiming high. I love it.”
“I’m not aiming for the Duke of Baskim.”
“Who are you going to snag then?” Nobi queried.
“No one,” she answered before she thought it through.
“But you said you would do the dare first. You can’t back out now. It’s not even been five minutes.” Mimi’s eyes were hard and her jaw was set. “You’re supposed to be our example.”
It hadn’t even been five minutes? Ha. It felt as though it had been five hours. There was no duke on her mind for herself.
“Come on Bodi,” Joan’s quiet voice stirred something in her. “You don’t have to make the first move.”
Boudicca scoffed. “If I don’t make the first move, trust me, nothing is going to happen. I’ve been on the shelf for a few years now. I’d have to tackle a duke to be seen at this point.”
Her sisters chuckled. “No tackling will be necessary. I’m sure if you drop your fan at just the right moment, a gentlemanly duke will pick it up for you.”
“Or tip your foil at him, trapping him in a corner. That would surely get you enough gossip to start your fencing school for girls,” Zenobia whirled her finger in the air like a small blade.
“I’m not ready for that yet.” Boudicca tightened her smile, not wanting to let on how much she wished she was there. Ready to open her school for girls.
Thankfully, to distract her, the ridiculous flirtation brought to mind the duke and his handkerchief on the ground. She still couldn’t believe he had asked her to clean it up. He had crashed into her after all. She was lucky she was still on her feet. What had he been doing walking backward like that anyway? She shook her head at the vexatious man.
“What about the Duke of Baskim?” Joan asked innocently. “You two were talking. What happened?”
“Nothing happened.” And nothing ever would.
“Did he ask you to dance?” Nobi piped up.
“No, of course not.”
“There’s no of course not about it. He could have asked you to dance.” Mimi was practically hopping back and forth on her feet in front of Boudicca in excitement.
“Well, he didn’t.”
“He could have,” Mimi returned.
“Not in any known universe—”
“Well, what if he did? What would you say?”
Three sets of eyes were on Boudicca awaiting her answer. She couldn’t very well say that she would sabotage the dare. She had to give them hope.
“If”—she held up her index finger—“If he ever asked me to dance…I would say yes.”
The three sisters squealed. A whisper squeal.
Of course he would never ask, so there was no concern that she was giving them false hope.